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THE  UBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


E^roOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROP 
SOCIETIES 


PR5612 
.A  1 
1888 


It: 


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This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it  may  be 
renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


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DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


I 


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I 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/historyofhenryesOOthac_0 


Beatrix. 


THACKERArS    COMPLETE    WORKS. 

THE    STERLING    EDITION. 

With  325  Illustrations  by  the  Author,  Du  Maurier,  Cruikshank, 
Leech,  Millais,  Barnard,  and  others. 


THE    HISTORY 


OF 


HENRY   ESMOND,  Esq, 

A  COLONEL  IN   THE   SERVICE   OF   HER  MAJESTY 
QUEEN   ANNE 


WRITTEN  B  Y  HIMSELF        pjf^  ^  U)  2^ 


BY 


WILLIAM   MAKE3eA€S^HACKERAY 

nORTff 


y! SlV^ ^f  ^^ 


ESTES     AND     LAURIAT 
1888 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE 

WILLIAM  BINGHAM,  LORD  ASHBURTON. 


My  dear  Lord, 

The  writer  of  a  book  which  copies  the  manners  and  lan- 
guage of  Queen  Anne's  time,  must  not  omit  the  Dedication  to 
the  Patron ;  and  I  ask  leave  to  inscribe  this  volume  to  j'our 
Lordship,  for  the  sake  of  the  great  kindness  and  friendship 
which  I  owe  to  you  and  yours. 

My  volume   will  reach  you   when  the   Author  is   on  his 
voyage  to  a  country  where  your  name  is  as  well  known  as 
here.      Wherever  I  am,  I  shall  gratefully  regard  you ;    and 
shall  not  be  the  less  welcomed  in  America  because  I  am 
Your  obliged  friend  and  servant, 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

London,  October  18, 1852. 


I 


PREFACE. 


THE  ESMONDS  OF  VIRGINIA. 

The  estate  of  Castle  wood,  in  Virginia,  which  was  given  to 
our  ancestors  by  King  Charles  the  First,  as  some  return  for  the 
sacrifices  made  in  his  Majesty's  cause  by  the  Esmond  family, 
lies  in  Westmoreland  county,  between  the  rivers  Potomac  and 
Rappahannock,  and  was  once  as  great  as  an  English  Principality, 
though  in  the  early  times  its  revenues  were  but  small.  Indeed, 
for  near  eighty  years  after  our  forefathers  possessed  them,  our 
plantations  were  in  the  hands  of  factors,  who  enriched  them- 
selves one  after  another,  though  ^  few  scores  of  hogsheads  of 
tobacco  were  all  the  produce  that,  for  long  after  the  Restora- 
tion, our  family  received  from  their  Virginian  estates. 

My  dear  and  honored  father.  Colonel  Henry  Esmond,  whose 
history,  written  by  himself,  is  contained  in  the  accompanying 
volume,  came  to  Virginia  in  the  year  1718,  built  his  house  of 
Castlewood,  and  here  permanently  settled.  After  a  long 
stormy  life  in  England,  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  many 
years  in  peace  and  honor  in  this  country ;  how  beloved  and 
respected  by  all  his  fellow-citizens,  how  inexpressibly  dear 
to  his  famity,  I  need  not  say.  His  whole  life  was  a  benefit  to 
all  who  were  connected  with  him.  He  gave  the  best  example, 
the  best  advice,  the  most  bounteous  hospitality  to  his  friends  ; 
the  tenderest  care  to  his  dependants ;  and  bestowed  on  those 
of  his  immediate  family  such  a  blessing  of  fatherly  love  and 
protection  as  can  never  be  thought  of,  by  us,  at  least,  without 
veneration  and  thankfulness ;  and  my  sons'  children,  whether 


vi  PREFACE. 

established  here  in  our  Republic,  or  at  home  in  the  always 
beloved  mother  country,  from  which  our  late  quarrel  hath  sepa- 
rated us,  may  surely  be  proud  to  be  descended  from  one  who 
in  all  ways  was  so  truly  noble. 

My  dear  mother  died  in  1736,  soon  after  our  return  from 
England,  whither  my  parents  took  me  for  my  education ;  and 
where  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Warrington,  whom  my 
children  never  saw.  When  it  pleased  heaven,  in  the  bloom  of 
his  youth,  and  after  but  a  few  months  of  a  most  happ}^  union, 
to  remove  him  from  me,  I  owed  my  recover}^  from  the  grief 
which  that  calamity  caused  me,  mainly  to  my  dearest  father's 
tenderness,  and  then  to  the  blessing  vouchsafed  to  me  in  the 
birth  of  my  two  beloved  boys.  I  know  the  fatal  differences 
which  separated  them  in  politics  never  disunited  their  hearts  ; 
and  as  I  can  love  them  both,  whether  wearing  the  King's  colors 
or  the  Republic's,  I  am  sure  ttiat  they  love  me  and  one  another, 
and  him  above  all,  my  father  and  theirs,  the  dearest  friend  of 
their  childhood,  the  noble  gentleman  who  bred  them  from  their 
infancy  in  the  practice  and  knowledge  of  Truth,  and  Love  and 
Honor. 

My  children  will  never  forget  the  appearance  and  figure 
of  their  revered  grandfather ;  and  I  wish  I  possessed  the  art 
of  drawing  (which  my  papa  had  in  perfection),  so  that  I  could 
leave  to  our  descendants  a  portrait  of  one  who  was  so  good 
and  so  respected.  My  father  was  of  a  dark  complexion,  with 
a  very  great  forehead  and  dark  hazel  eyes,  overhung  by  eye- 
brows which  remained  black  long  after  his  hair  was  white. 
His  nose  was  aquiline,  his  smile  extraordinary  sweet.  How 
well  I  remember  it,  and  how  little  any  description  I  can  write 
can  recall  his  image  !  He  was  of  rather  low  stature,  not  being 
above  five  feet  seven  inches  in  height ;  he  used  to  laugh  at  mj^ 
sons,  whom  he  called  his  crutches,  and  say  they  were  grown 
too  tall  for  him  to  lean  upon.  But  small  as  he  was,  he  had  a 
perfect  grace  and  majest}^  of  deportment,  such  as  I  have  never 
seen  in  this  country,  except  perhaps  in  our  friend  Mr.  Wash- 
ington, and  commanded  respect  wherever  he  appeared. 


PREFACE.  vii 

In  all  bodily  exercises  he  excelled,  and  showed  an  extraor- 
dinary quickness  and  agility.  Of  fencing  he  was  especially 
fond,  and  made  my  two  boys  proficient  in  that  art ;  so  much 
so,  that  when  the  French  came  to  this  country  with  Monsieur 
Rochambeau,  not  one  of  his  officers  was  superior  to  my  Henry, 
and  he  was  not  the  equal  of  my  poor  George,  who  had  taken 
the  King's  side  in  our  lamentable  but  glorious  war  of  in- 
dependence. 

Neither  my  father  nor  mj'  mother  ever  wore  powder  in  their 
hair ;  both  their  heads  were  as  white  as  silver,  as  I  can  remem- 
ber them.  My  dear  mother  possessed  to  the  last  an  extraordi- 
nary brightness  and  freshness  of  complexion  ;  nor  would  people 
believe  that  she  did  not  wear  rouge.  At  sixty  years  of  age  she 
still  looked  young,  and  was  quite  agile.  It  was  not  until  after 
that  dreadful  siege  of  our  house  by  the  Indians,  which  left  me 
a  widow  ere  I  was  a  mother,  that  my  dear  mother's  health 
broke.  She  never  recovered  her  terror  and  anxiety  of  those 
days  which  ended  so  fatally  for  me,  then  a  bride  scarce  six 
months  married,  and  died  in  my  father's  arms  ere  my  own  year 
of  widowhood  was  over. 

From  that  day,  until  the  last  of  his  dear  and  honored  life,  it 
was  my  delight  and  consolation  to  remain  with  him  as  his  com- 
forter and  companion ;  and  from  those  little  notes  which  my 
mother  hath  made  here  and  there  in  the  volume  in  which  my 
father  describes  his  adventures  in  Europe,  I  can  well  under- 
stand the  extreme  devotion  with  which  she  regarded  him  —  a 
devotion  so  passionate  and  exclusive  as  to  prevent  her,  I  think, 
from  loving  any  other  person  except  with  an  inferior  regard ; 
her  whole  thoughts  being  centred  on  this  one  object  of  affection 
and  worship.  I  know  that,  before  her,  my  dear  father  did  not 
show  the  love  which  he  had  for  his  daughter ;  and  in  her  last 
and  most  sacred  moments,  this  dear  and  tender  parent  owned 
to  me  her  repentance  that  she  had  not  loved  me  enough :  her 
jealousy  even  that  my  father  should  give  his  affection  to  any 
but  herself:  and  in  the  most  fond  and  beautiful  words  of  affec- 
tion and  admonition,  she  bade  me  never  to  leave  him,  and  to 


vm  PREFACE. 

supply  the  place  which  she  was  quitting.  With  a  clear  con^ 
science,  and  a  heart  inexpressibly  thankful,  I  think  I  can  say 
that  I  fulfilled  those  dying  commands,  and  that  until  his  last 
hour  my  dearest  father  never  had  to  complain  that  his  daugh- 
ter's love  and  fidelity  failed  him. 

And  it  is  since  I  knew  him  entirely  —  for  during  my  mother's 
life  he  never  quite  opened  himself  to  me  —  since  I  knew  the 
value  and  splendor  of  that  aflTection  which  he  bestowed  upon 
me,  that  I  have  come  to  understand  and  pardon  what,  I  own, 
used  to  anger  me  in  my  mother's  lifetime,  her  jealousy  respect- 
ing her  husband's  love.  'Twas  a  gift  so  precious,  that  no 
wonder  she  who  had  it  was  for  keeping  it  all,  and  could  part 
with  none  of  it,  even  to  her  daughter. 

Though  I  never  heard  my  father  use  a  rough  word,  'twas 
extraordinary  with  how  much  awe  his  people  regarded  him ; 
and  the  servants  on  our  plantation,  both  those  assigned  from 
England  and  the  purchased  negroes,  obeyed  him  with  an  eager- 
ness such  as  the  most  severe  taskmasters  round  about  us  could 
never  get  from  their  people.  He  was  never  familiar,  though 
perfectly  simple  and  natural ;  he  was  the  same  with  the  meanest 
man  as  with  the  greatest,  and  as  courteous  to  a  black  slave-girl 
as  to  the  Governor's  wife.  No  one  ever  thought  of  taking  a 
liberty  with  him  (except  once  a  tipsy  gentleman  from  York, 
and  I  am  bound  to  own  that  m}^  papa  never  forgave  him)  :  he 
set  the  humblest  people  at  once  on  their  ease  with  him,  and 
brought  down  the  most  arrogant  by  a  grave  satiric  way,  which 
made  persons  exceedingly  afraid  of  hira.  His  courtesy  was  not 
put  on  like  a  Sunday  suit,  and  laid  by  when  the  company  went 
away ;  it  was  always  the  same ;  as  he  was  always  dressed  the 
same,  whether  for  a  dinner  by  ourselves  or  for  a  great  enter- 
tainment. They  say  he  liked  to  be  the  first  in  his  company ; 
but  what  company  was  there  in  which  he  would  not  be  first  ? 
When  I  went  to  Europe  for  my  education,  and  we  passed  a 
winter  at  London  with  my  half-brother,  my  Lord  Castlewood 
and  his  second  ladj^,  I  saw  at  her  Majesty's  Court  some  of  the 
most  famous  gentlemen  of  those  days ;  and  I  thought  to  myself 


PREFACE.  ix 

none  of  these  are  better  than  my  papa ;  and  the  famous  Lord 
Bolingbroke,  who  came  to  us  from  Dawley,  said  as  much,  and 
that  the  men  of  that  time  were  not  like  those  of  his  youth  :  — 
*'  Were  your  father,  Madam,"  he  said,  "  to  go  into  the  woods, 
the  Indians  would  elect  him  Sachem  ;  "  and  his  lordship  was 
pleased  to  call  me  Pocahontas. 

I  did  not  see  our  other  relative,  Bishop  Tusher's  lady,  of 
whom  so  much  is  said  in  my  papa's  memoirs  —  although  my 
mamma  went  to  visit  her  in  the  country.  1  have  no  pride  (as 
I  showed  by  complying  with  my  mother's  request,  and  marry- 
ing a  gentleman  who  was  but  the  younger  son  of  a  Suffolk 
Baronet) ,  yet  I  own  to  a  decent  respect  for  my  name,  and  won- 
der how  one  who  ever  bore  it,  should  change  it  for  that  of  Mrs. 
Thomas  Tusher,  I  pass  over  as  odious  and  unworthy  of  credit 
those  reports  (which  I  heard  in  li^urope  and  was  then  too  young 
to  understand),  how  this  person,  having  left  her  family  and  fled 
to  Paris,  out  of  jealousy  of  the  Pretender  betrayed  his  secrets 
to  my  Lord  Stair,  King  George's  Ambassador,  and  nearly 
caused  the  Prince's  death  there  ;  how  she  came  to  England  and 
married  this  Mr.  Tusher,  and  became  a  great  favorite  of  King 
George  the  Second,  by  whom  Mr.  Tusher  was  made  a  Dean, 
and  then  a  Bishop.  I  did  not  see  the  lady,  who  chose  to  re- 
main at  her  palace  all  the  time  we  were  in  London ;  but  after 
visiting  her,  my  poor  mamma  said  she  had  lost  all  her  good 
looks,  and  warned  me  not  to  set  too  much  store  by  any  such 
gifts  which  nature  had  bestowed  upon  me.  She  grew  exceed- 
ingly stout ;  and  I  remember  my  brother's  wife,  Lady  Castle- 
wood,  saying — "No  wonder  she  became  a  favorite,  for  the 
King  likes  them  old  and  ugly,  as  his  father  did  before  him." 
On  which  papa  said —  "  All  women  were  alike  ;  that  there  was 
never  one  so  beautiful  as  that  one  ;  and  that  we  could  forgive 
her  everything  but  her  beauty."  And  hereupon  my  mamma 
looked  vexed,  and  my  Lord  Castlewood  began  to  laugh  ;  and  I, 
of  course,  being  a  young  creature,  could  not  understand  what 
was  the  subject  of  their  conversation. 

After  the  circumstances  narrated  in  the  third  book  of  these 


X  PREFACE. 

Memoirs,  my  father  and  mother  both  went  abroad,  being  ad- 
vised by  their  friends  to  leave  the  country  in  consequence  of 
the  transactions  which  are  recounted  at  the  close  of  the  volume 
of  the  Memoirs.  But  my  brother,  hearing  how  the  future 
Bishop's  lady  had  quitted  Castlewood  and  joined  the  Pretender 
at  Paris,  pursued  him,  and  would  have  killed  him.  Prince  as  he 
was,  had  not  the  Prince  managed  to  make  his  escape.  On  his 
expedition  to  Scotland  directly  after,  Castlewood  was  so  en- 
raged against  him  that  he  asked  leave  to  serve  as  a  volunteer, 
and  join  the  Duke  of  Arg3^1e's  armj^  in  Scotland,  which  the 
Pretender  never  had  the  courage  to  face ;  and  thenceforth  my 
Lord  was  quite  reconciled  to  the  present  reigning  family,  from 
whom  he  hath  even  received  promotion. 

Mrs.  Tusher  was  by  this  time  as  angry  against  the  Pre- 
tender as  any  of  her  relations  could  be,  and  used  to  boast,  as  I 
have  heard,  that  she  not  only  brought  back  my  Lord  to  the 
Church  of  England,  but  procured  the  English  peerage  for  him, 
which  the  junior  branch  of  our  family  at  present  enjoys.  She 
was  a  great  friend  of  Sir  Kobert  Walpole,  and  would  not  rest 
until  her  husband  slept  at  Lambeth,  my  papa  used  laughing  to 
say.  However,  the  Bishop  died  of  apoplexy  suddenly,  and  his 
wife  erected  a  great  monument  over  him  ;  and  the  pair  sleep 
under  that  stone,  with  a  canopy  of  marble  clouds  and  angels 
above  them  —  the  first  Mrs.  Tusher  lying  sixty  miles  off  at 
Castlewood. 

But  my  papa's  genius  and  education  are  both  greater  than 
any  a  woman  can  be  expected  to  have,  and  his  adventures  in 
Europe  far  more  exciting  than  his  life  in  this  country,  which 
was  passed  in  the  tranquil  offices  of  love  and  duty ;  and  I  shall 
say  no  more  by  way  of  introduction  to  his  Memoirs,  nor  keep 
my  children  from  the  perusal  of  a  story  which  is  much  more 
interesting  than  that  of  their  affectionate  old  mother, 

RACHEL  ESMOND  WARRINGTON. 
Castlewood,  Virginia, 
November  3,  1778. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 


THE    EARLY    YOUTH    OF    HENRY    ESMOND,    UP    TO    THE    TIME    OF    HIS 
LEAVING    TRINITY   COLLEGE,    IN   CAMBRIDGE. 

Chapter  Page 

I.     An  Account  of  the  Family  of  Esmond  of  Castlewood 

Hall 4 

II.     Relates  how  Francis,  Fourth  Viscount,  arrives  at  Castle- 
wood          9 

III.  Whither,  in  the  time  of  Thomas,  Third  Viscount,  I  had 

preceded  him  as  Page  to  Isabella 16 

IV.  I  am  placed  under  a  Popish   Priest  and  bred  to  that 

Religion.  —  Viscountess  Castlewood 26 

V.     My  Superiors  are  engaged  in  Plots  for  the  Restoration  of 

King  James  II 32 

VI.     The  Issue  of  the  Plots.  —  The  Death  of  Thomas,  Third 
Viscount  of  Castlewood ;  and  the  Imprisonment  of  his 

Viscountess 42 

VII.     I  am  left  at  Castlewood  an  Orphan,  and  find  most  kind 

Protectors  there 55 

VIII.     After  Good  Fortune  comes  Evil 62 

IX.     I  have  the  Small-pox,  and  prepare  to  leave  Castlewood  .  70 

X.     I  go  to  Cambridge,  and  do  but  little  Good  there     ...  88 
XI.     I  come  Home  for  a  Holiday  to  Castlewood,  and  find  a 

Skeleton  in  the  House 94 

XII.     My  Lord  Mohun  comes  among  us  for  no  Good  ....  106 

XIII.  My  Lord  leaves  us  and  his  Evil  behind  him 114 

XIV.  We  ride  after  him  to  London 126 


xii  CONTENTS. 


BOOK  n. 

CONTAINS    MR.     ESMOND'S     MILITARY    LIFE,    AND     OTHER     MATTERS 
APPERTAINING   TO   THE   ESMOND   FAMILY. 

Chapteb  Pagb 

I.     I  am  in  Prison,  and  Visited,  but  not  Consoled  there  .     .  141 

II.     I  come  to  the  End  of  my  Captivity,  but  not  of  my  Trouble  150 

III.  I  take  the  Queen's  Pay  in  Quin's  Regiment 158 

IV.  Recapitulations 166 

V.     I  go  on  the  Vigo  Bay  Expedition,  taste  Salt  Water  and 

smell  Powder 172 

VI.     The  29th  December 182 

VII.     I  am  made  Welcome  at  Walcote 188 

VIII.     Family  Talk 197 

IX.     I  make  the  Campaign  of  1704 203 

X.     An  Old  Story  about  a  Fool  and  a  Woman 212 

XI.     The  famous  Mr.  Joseph  Addison 220 

XII.     I  get  a  Company  in  the  Campaign  of  1706 230 

XIII.  I  meet  an  Old  Acquaintance  in  Flanders,  and  find  my 

Mother's  Grave  and  my  own  Cradle  there      ....  235 

XIV.  The  Campaign  of  1707,  1708 246 

XV.    General  Webb  wins  the  Battle  of  Wynendael  ....  253 


BOOK  IIL 

CONTAINING   THE   END    OF    MR.  ESMOND'S    ADVENTURES   IN  ENGLAND. 

I.  I  come  to  an  End  of  my  Battles  and  Bruises     ....  277 

II.  I  go  Home,  and  harp  on  the  Old  String 289 

III.  APaper  out  of  the  *' Spectator" 302 

IV.  Beatrix's  New  Suitor 318 

V.  Mohun  appears  for  the  Last  Time  in  this  History  .     .     .  328 

VI.  Poor  Beatrix 340 

VII.  I  visit  Castlewood  once  more 345 

VIII.  I  travel  to  France  and  bring  Home  a  Portrait  of  Rigaud  355 

IX.  The  Original  of  the  Portrait  comes  to  England      .     .     .  364 

X.  We  entertain  a  very  Distinguished  Guest  at  Kensington  376 

XI.  Our  Guest  quits  us  as  not  being  Hospitable  enough    .     .  389 

XII.  A  great  Scheme,  and  who  Balked  it 398 

Xm.  August  1st,  1714 403 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Henry  Esmond  finds  Friends 6 

Parting 87 

The  Duel  in  Leicester  Field 137 

Beatrix 189 

The  Chevalier  de  St.  George 289 

Reconciliation 327 

Monsieur  Baptiste <  370 

The  Last  of  Beatrix 411 


THE    HISTOEY    OF 

HENRY   ESMOND 


BOOK    I. 

THE    EARLY   YOUTH    OF    HENRY   ESMOND,    UP   TO   THE    TIME    OP 
HIS    LEAVING   TRINITY    COLLEGE,    IN   CAMBRIDGE. 

The  actors  in  the  old  tragedies,  as  we  read,  piped  their 
iambics  to  a  tuDe,  speaking  from  under  a  mask,  and  wearing 
stilts  and  a  great  head-dress.  'Twas  thought  the  dignity  of 
the  Tragic  Muse  required  these  appurtenances,  and  that  she 
was  not  to  move  except  to  a  measure  and  cadence.  So  Queen 
Medea  slew  her  children  to  a  slow  music :  and  King  Agamem- 
non perished  in  a  dying  fall  (to  use  Mr.  Dryden's  words)  :  the 
Chorus  standing  b^^  in  a  set  attitude,  and  rhythmically  and  deco- 
rousl}^  bewailing  the  fates  of  those  great  crowned  persons.  The 
Muse  of  History  hath  encumbered  herself  with  ceremon}'  as  well 
as  her  Sister  of  the  Theatre.  She  too  wears  the  mask  and  the 
cothurnus,  and  speaks  to  measure.  She  too,  in  our  age,  busies 
herself  with  the  affairs  only  of  kings  ;  waiting  on  them  obsequi- 
ously and  stately,  as  if  she  were  but  a  mistress  of  court  (cere- 
monies, and  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  registering  of  the  aff'airs 
of  the  common  people.  I  have  seen  in  his  very  old  age  and 
decrepitude  the  old  French  King  Lewis  the  Fourteenth,  the 
type  and  model  of  kinghood  —  who  never  moved  but  to  meas- 
ure, who  lived  and  died  according  to  the  laws  of  his  Court- 
marshal,  persisting  in  enacting  through  life  the  part  of  Hero ; 
and,  divested  of  poetiy,  this  was  but  a  little  wrinkled  old  man, 
pock-marked,  and  with  a  great  periwig  and  red  heels  to  make 
him  look  tall  —  a  hero  for  a  book  if  j'ou  like,  or  for  a  brass 
statue  or  a  painted  ceiling,  a  god  in  a  Roman  shape,  but  what 
more  than  a  man  for  Madame  Maintenon,  or  the  barber  who 
shaved  him,  or  Monsieur  Fagon,  his  surgeon?  I  wonder  shall 
History  ever  pull  off  her  periwig  and  cease  to  be  court-ridden  ? 


2  THE  HISTORY  OF  HE:N^RY  ESMOND. 

Shall  we  see  something  of  France  and  England  besides  Ver- 
sailles and  Windsor?  I  saw  Queen  Anne  at  the  latter  place 
tearing  down  the  Park  slopes,  after  her  stag-hounds,  and  driv- 
ing her  one-horse  chaise  —  a  hot,  red-faced  woman,  not  in  the 
least  resembling  that  statue  of  her  which  turns  its  stone  back 
upon  St.  Paul's,  and  faces  the  coaches  struggling  up  Ludgate 
Hill.  She  was  neither  better  bred  nor  wiser  than  you  and  me, 
though  we  knelt  to  hand  her  a  letter  or  a  wash-hand  basin. 
Why  shall  Historj^  go  on  kneeling  to  the  end  of  time  ?  I  am 
for  having  her  rise  up  off  her  knees,  and  take  a  natural  posture  : 
not  to  be  for  ever  performing  cringes  and  congees  like  a  court- 
chamberlain,  and  shuffling  backwards  out  of  doors  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  sovereign.  In  a  word,  I  would  have  History  famihar 
rather  than  heroic :  and  think  that  Mr.  Hogarth  and  Mr.  Field- 
ing will  give  our  children  a  much  better  idea  of  the  manners 
of  the  present  age  in  England,  than  the  Court  Gazette  and  the 
newspapers  which  we  get  thence. 

There  was  a  German  officer  of  Webb's,  with  whom  we  used 
to  joke,  and  of  whom  a  story  (whereof  I  m^'self  was  the  author) 
was  got  to  be  believed  in  the  arm}',  that  he  was  eldest  son  of 
the  hereditary  Grand  Bootjack  of  the  Empire,  and  the  heir  to 
that  honor  of  which  his  ancestors  had  been  ver}'  proud,  having 
been  kicked  for  twenty  generations  by  one  imperial  foot,  as 
they  drew  the  boot  from  the  other.  I  have  heard  that  the  old 
Lord  Castle  wood,  of  part  of  whose  famih^  these  present  vol- 
umes are  a  chronicle,  though  he  came  of  quite  as  good  blood  as 
the  Stuarts  whom  he  served  (and  who  as  regards  mere  lineage 
are  no  better  than  a  dozen  English  and  Scottish  houses  I  could 
name),  was  prouder  of  his  post  about  the  Court  than  of  his 
ancestral  honors,  and  valued  his  dignit}'  (as  Lord  of  the  But- 
teries and  Groom  of  the  King's  Posset)  so  highly,  that  he 
cheerfully  ruined  himself  for  the  thankless  and  thriftless  race 
who  bestowed  it.  He  pawned  his  plate  for  King  Charles  the 
First,  mortgaged  his  property  for  the  same  cause,  and  lost  the 
greater  part  of  it  by  fines  and  sequestration  :  stood  a  siege  of 
his  castle  by  Ireton,  where  his  brother  Thomas  capitulated 
(afterward  making  terms  with  the  Commonwealth,  for  which 
the  elder  brother  never  forgave  him),  and  where  his  second 
brother  Edward,  who  had  embraced  the  ecclesiastical  profes- 
sion, was  slain  on  Castle  wood  Tower,  being  engaged  there 
both  as  preacher  and  artilleryman.  This  resolute  old  loyalist, 
who  was  with  the  King  whilst  his  house  was  thus  being  bat- 
tered down,  escaped  abroad  with  his  only  son,  then  a  boy,  to 
return  and  take  a  part  in  Worcester  fight.     On  that  fatal  field 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  3 

Eustace  Esmond  was  killed,  and  Castle  wood  fled  from  it  once 
more  into  exile,  and  henceforward,  and  after  the  Restoration, 
never  was  awa}'  from  the  Court  of  the  monarch  (for  whose 
return  we  offer  thanks  in  the  Praj'er-Book)  who  sold  his  coun- 
try and  who  took  bribes  of  the  French  king. 

What  spectacle  is  more  august  than  that  of  a  great  king  in 
exile?  Who  is  more  worth}^  of  respect  than  a  brave  man  in 
misfortune?  Mr.  Addison  has  painted  such  a  figure  in  his 
noble  piece  of  Cato.  But  suppose  fugitive  Cato  fuddhng  him- 
self at  a  tavern  with  a  wench  on  each  knee,  a  dozen  faithful 
and  tipsy  companions  of  defeat,  and  a  landlord  calling  out  for 
his  bill ;  and  the  dignit}^  of  misfortune  is  straightway  lost. 
The  Historical  Muse  turns  awa}^  shamefaced  from  the  vulgar 
scene,  and  closes  the  door — on  which  the  exile's  unpaid  drink 
is  scored  up  —  upon  him  and  his  pots  and  his  pipes,  and  the 
tavern-chorus  which  he  and  his  friends  are  singing.  Such  a 
man  as  Charles  should  have  had  an  Ostade  or  Mieris  to  paint 
him.  Your  Knellers  and  Le  Bruns  onl}^  de-al  in  clumsy  and 
impossible  allegories :  and  it  hath  always  seemed  to  me  blas- 
phemy to  claim  Olympus  for  such  a  wine-drabbled  divinity  as 
that. 

About  the  King's  follower,  the  Viscount  Castlewood  —  or- 
phan of  his  son,  ruined  b}^  his  fidelit}^,  bearing  many  wounds 
and  marks  of  braver}^,  old  and  in  exile  —  his  kinsmen  I  sup- 
pose should  be  silent ;  nor  if  this  patriarch  fell  down  in  his 
cups,  call  fie  upon  him,  and  fetch  passers-by  to  laugh  at  his 
red  face  and  white  hairs.  What !  does  a  stream  rush  out  of  a 
mountain  free  and  pure,  to  roll  through  fair  pastures,  to  feed 
and  throw  out  bright  tributaries,  and  to  end  in  a  village  gutter? 
Lives  that  have  noble  commencements  have  often  no  better 
endings  ;  it  is  not  without  a  kind  of  awe  and  reverence  that  an 
observer  should  speculate  upon  such  careers  as  he  traces  the 
course  of  them.  I  have  seen  too  much  of  success  in  life  to 
take  off  my  hat  and  huzzah  to  it  as  it  passes  in  its  gilt  coach : 
and  would  do  m}'  little  part  with  my  neighbors  on  foot,  that 
the}^  should  not  gape  with  too  much  wonder,  nor  applaud  too 
loudly.  Is  it  the  Lord  Mayor  going  in  state  to  mince-pies  and 
the  Mansion  House?  Is  it  poor  Jack  of  Newgate's  procession, 
with  the  sheriff  and  javelin-men,  conducting  him  on  his  last 
journe}'  to  Tyburn  ?  I  look  into  my  heart  and  think  that  I  am 
as  good  as  m}^  Lord  Mayor,  and  know  I  am  as  bad  as  Tyburn 
Jack.  Give  me  a  chain  and  red  gown  and  a  pudding  before 
me,  and  I  could  pla}^  the  part  of  Alderman  ver}^  well,  and  sen- 
tence Jack  after  dinner.     Starve  me,  keep  me  from  books  and 


4  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOiN^D. 

honest  people,  educate  me  to  love  dice,  gin,  and  pleasure,  and 
put  me  on  Hdunslow  Heath,  with  a  purse  before  me,  and  I  will 
take  it.  "  And  I  shall  be  deservedly  hanged,"  sa}^  you,  wish- 
ing to  put  an  end  to  this  prosing.  I  don't  sa}^  No.  I  can't 
but  accept  the  world  as  I  find  it,  including  a  rope's  end,  as  long 
as  it  is  in  fashion. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AN  ACCOUNT   OF  THE    FAMILY  OF   ESMOND   OF  CASTLE  WOOD   HALL. 

When  Francis,  fourth  Viscount  Castle  wood,  came  to  his  title, 
and  presently  after  to  take  possession  of  his  house  of  Castle- 
wood,  county  Hants,  in  the  year  1691,  almost  the  only  tenant 
of  the  place  besides  the  domestics  was  a  lad  of  twelve  j'ears  of 
age,  of  whom  no  one  seemed  to  take  any  note  until  mj  Lady 
Viscountess  lighted  upon  him,  going  over  the  house  with  the 
housekeeper  on  the  da}^  of  her  arrival.  The  boy  was  in  the 
room  known  as  the  Book-room,  or  Yellow  Caller}^,  where  the  por- 
traits of  the  family  used  to  hang,  that  fine  piece  among  others 
of  Sir  Antonio  Van  Dyck  of  George,  second  Viscount,  and  that 
by  Mr.  Dobson  of  my  lord  the  third  Viscount,  just  deceased, 
which  it  seems  his  lady  and  widow  did  not  think  fit  to  carry 
away,  when  she  sent  for  and  carried  ofl"  to  her  house  at  Chelse}-, 
near  to  London,  the  picture  of  herself  by  Sir  Peter  Lely,  in 
which  her  lad3'ship  was  represented  as  a  huntress  of  Diana's 
court. 

The  new  and  fair  lady  of  Castlewood  found  the  sad,  lonely, 
little  occupant  of  this  gallery  busy  over  his  great  book,  which 
he  laid  down  when  he  was  aware  that  a  stranger  was  at  hand. 
And,  knowing  who  that  person  must  be,  the  lad  stood  up  and 
bowed  before  her,  performing  a  shy  obeisance  to  the  mistress 
of  his  house. 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  —  indeed  when  was  it  that  that 
hand  would  not  stretch  out  to  do  an  act  of  kindness,  or  to  pro- 
tect grief  and  ill-fortune?  "And  this  is  our  kinsman,"  she 
said  ;  "  and  what  is  3^our  name,  kinsman  ?  " 

''My  name  is  Henr}^  Esmond,"  said  the  lad,  looking  up  at 
her  in  a  sort  of  delight  and  wonder,  for  she  had  come  upon  him 
as  a  Dea  certe,  and  appeared  the  most  charming  object  he  had 
ever  looked  on.  Her  golden  hair  was  shining  in  the  gold  of 
the  sun ;  her  complexion  was  of  a  dazzling  bloom ;  her  lips 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  5 

smiling,  and  her  eyes  beaming  with  a  kindness  which  made 
Harry  Esmond's  heart  to  beat  with  surprise. 

"  His  name  is  Henry  Esmond,  sure  enough,  my  lady,"  saj's 
Mrs.  Worksop,  the  housekeeper  (an  old  tyrant  whom  Henry 
Esmond  plagued  more  than  he  hated) ,  and  the  old  gentlewoman 
looked  signiiicantly  towards  the  late  lord's  picture,  as  it  now  is 
in  the  family,  noble  and  severe-looking,  with  his  hand  on  his 
sword,  and  his  order  on  his  cloak,  which  he  had  from  the  Em- 
peror during  the  war  on  the  Danube  against  the  Turk. 

Seeing  the  great  and  undeniable  likeness  between  this  por- 
trait and  the  lad,  the  new  Viscountess,  who  had  still  hold  of  the 
bo3''s  hand  as  she  looked  at  the  picture,  blushed  and  dropped 
the  hand  quicklj^,  and  walked  down  the  gallery,  followed  b3^ 
Mrs,  Worksop. 

When  the  lady  came  back,  Harry  Esmond  stood  exactly 
in  the  same  spot,  and  with  his  hand  as  it  had  fallen  when  he 
dropped  it  on  his  black  coat. 

Her  heart  melted,  I  suppose  (indeed  she  hath  since  owned 
as  much) ,  at  the  notion  that  she  should  do  anything  unkind  to 
an}'  mortal,  great  or  small ;  for,  when  she  returned,  she  had 
sent  away  the  housekeeper  upon  an  errand  by  the  door  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  gallerj' ;  and,  coming  back  to  the  lad,  with  a 
look  of  infinite  pity  and  tenderness  in  her  eyes,  she  took  his 
hand  again,  placing  her  other  fair  hand  on  his  head,  and  say- 
ing some  words  to  him,  which  were  so  kind,  and  said  in  a  voice 
so  sweet,  that  the  boy,  who  had  never  looked  upon  so  much 
beauty  before,  felt  as  if  the  touch  of  a  superior  being  or  angel 
smote  him  down  to  the  ground,  and  kissed  the  fair  protecting 
hand  as  he  knelt  on  one  knee.  To  the  ver}'  last  hour  of  his 
life,  Esmond  remembered  the  lady  as  she  then  spoke  and  looked, 
the  rings  on  her  fair  hands,  the  very  scent  of  her  robe,  the 
beam  of  her  eyes  lighting  up  with  surprise  and  kindness,  her 
lips  blooming  in  a  smile,  the  sun  making  a  golden  halo  round 
her  hair. 

As  the  boy  was  yet  in  this  attitude  of  humihty,  enters  be- 
hind him  a  portly  gentleman,  with  a  little  girl  of  four  years  old 
in  his  hand.  The  gentleman  burst  into  a  great  laugh  at  the 
lady  and  her  adorer,  with  his  little  queer  figure,  his  sallow  face, 
and  long  black  hair.  The  lad}'  blushed,  and  seemed  to  depre- 
cate his  ridicule  b}'  a  look  of  appeal  to  her  husband,  for  it  was 
m}'  Lord  Viscount  who  now  arrived,  and  whom  the  lad  knew, 
having  once  before  seen  him  in  the  late  lord's  lifetime. 

' '  So  this  is  the  little  priest !  "  says  my  lord,  looking  down 
at  the  lad  ;  ''  welcome,  kinsman." 


6  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENKY  ESMOND. 

"  He  is  saying  his  praj'ers  to  mamma,"  says  the  little  girl, 
who  came  up  to  her  papa's  knees  ;  and  my  lord  burst  out  into 
another  great  laugh  at  this,  and  kinsman  Henr3^  looked  very 
silly.  He  invented  a  half-dozen  of  speeches  in  repl}',  but  'twas 
months  afterwards  when  he  thought  of  this  adventure :  as  it 
was,  he  had  never  a  word  in  answer. 

"  Le  pauvre  enfant,  il  n'a  que  nous,"  says  the  lady,  looking 
to  her  lord  ;  and  the  bo}^,  who  understood  her,  though  doubtless 
she  thought  otherwise,  thanked  her  with  all  his  heart  for  her 
kind  speech. 

"  And  he  shan't  want  for  friends  here,"  says  my  lord  in  a 
kind  voice,  "  shall  he,  little  Trix?" 

The  little  girl,  whose  name  was  Beatrix,  and  whom  her  papa 
called  bj'  this  diminutive,  looked  at  Henr}^  Esmond  solemnly, 
with  a  pair  of  large  e3'es,  and  then  a  smile  shone  over  her  face, 
which  was  as  beautiful  as  that  of  a  cherub,  and  she  came  up 
and  put  out  a  little  hand  to  him.  A  keen  and  delightful  pang 
of  gratitude,  happiness,  affection,  filled  the  orphan  child's  heart, 
as  he  received  from  the  protectors,  whom  Heaven  had  sent  to 
him,  these  touching  words  and  tokens  of  friendliness  and  kind- 
ness. But  an  hour  since,  he  had  felt  quite  alone  in  the  world : 
when  he  heard  the  great  peal  of  bells  from  Castlewood  church 
ringing  that  morning  to  welcome  the  arrival  of  the  new  lord 
and  lad3^,  it  had  rung  onl}^  terror  and  anxiety  to  him,  for  he 
knew  not  how  the  new  owner  would  deal  with  him  ;  and  those 
to  whom  he  formerl}^  looked  for  protection  were  forgotten  or 
dead.  Pride  and  doubt  too  had  kept  him  within-doors,  when 
the  Vicar  and  the  people  of  the  village,  and  the  servants  of  the 
house,  had  gone  out  to  welcome  mj^  Lord  Castlewood  —  for 
Henr}'  Esmond  was  no  servant,  though  a  dependant ;  no  rela- 
tive, though  he  bore  the  name  and  inherited  the  blood  of  the 
house  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  noise  and  acclamations  attending 
the  arrival  of  the  new  lord  (for  whom,  you  ma}'  be  sure,  a  feast 
was  got  ready,  and  guns  were  fired,  and  tenants  and  domestics 
huzzahed  when  his  carriage  approached  and  rolled  into  the 
court-yard  of  the  Hall) ,  no  one  ever  took  any  notice  of  young 
Henry  Esmond,  who  sat  unobserved  and  alone  in  the  Book- 
room,  until  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  when  his  new  friends 
found  him. 

When  my  lord  and  lady  were  going  away  thence,  the  little 
girl,  still  holding  her  kinsman  b}'  the  hand,  bade  him  to  come 
too.  "  Thou  wilt  always  forsake  an  old  friend  for  a  new  one, 
Trix,"  says  her  father  to  her  good-naturedl}' ;  and  went  into 
the  gallerj^,  giving  an  arm  to  his  lady.     They  passed  thence 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  7 

through  the  music-gallery,  long  since  dismantled,  and  Queen 
Elizabeth's  Rooms,  in  the  clock-tower,  and  out  into  the  terrace, 
where  was  a  fine  prospect  of  sunset  and  the  great  darkling 
woods  with  a  cloud  of  rooks  returning ;  and  the  plain  and  river 
with  Castle  wood  village  beyond,  and  purple  hills  beautiful  to 
look  at  —  and  the  little  heir  of  Castlewood,  a  child  of  two  3'ears 
old,  was  already  here  on  the  terrace  in  his  nurse's  arms,  from 
whom  he  ran  across  the  grass  instantl}'  he  perceived  his  mother, 
and  came  to  her. 

"If  thou  canst  not  be  happy  here,"  says  my  lord,  looking 
round  at  the  scene,  "  thou  art  hard  to  please,  Rachel." 

"  I  am  happy  where  3^ou  are,"  she  said,  "  but  we  were  hap- 
piest of  all  at  Walcote  Forest."  Then  my  lord  began  to  de- 
scribe what  was  before  them  to  his  wife,  and  what  indeed  little 
Harry  knew  better  than  he  —  viz. ,  the  historj'  of  the  house  : 
how  b}^  yonder  gate  the  page  ran  away  with  the  heiress  of  Castle- 
wood, by  which  the  estate  came  into  the  present  family;  how 
the  Roundheads  attacked  the  clock-tower,  which  my  lord's 
father  was  slain  in  defending.  "  I  was  but  tw^o  3'ears  old  then," 
says  he,  "but  take  forty-six  from  ninety,  and  how  old  shall  I 
be,  kinsman  Harry?" 

"  Thirty,"  says  his  wife,  with  a  laugh. 

"A  great  deal  too  old  for  3'ou,  Rachel,"  answers  my  lord, 
looking  fondl^^  down  at  her.  Indeed  she  seemed  to  be  a  girl, 
and  was  at  that  time  scarce  twenty  3'ears  old. 

"  You  know,  Frank,  I  will  do  an3'thing  to  please  3'ou,"  saj^s 
she,  "  and  I  promise  you  I  will  grow  older  every  da3'." 

"You  mustn't  call  papa,  Frank;  3'ou  must  call  papa  my 
lord  now,"  sa3S  Miss  Beatrix,  with  a  toss  of  her  little  head  ;  at 
which  the  mother  smiled,  and  the  good-natured  father  laughed, 
and  the  little  trotting  bo3'  laughed,  not  knowing  why  —  but 
because  he  was  happ3',  no  doubt  —  as  ever3'  one  seemed  to  be 
there.  How  those  trivial  incidents  and  words,  the  landscape 
and  sunshine,  and  the  group  of  people  smiling  and  talking, 
remain  fixed  on  the  memor3' ! 

As  the  sun  was  setting,  the  little  heir  was  sent  in  the  arms 
of  his  nurse  to  bed,  whither  he  went  howling ;  but  little  Trix 
was  promised  to  sit  to  supper  that  night  —  "  and  3'Ou  will  come 
too,  kinsman,  won't  3'ou?"  she  said. 

Harr3'  Esmond  blushed:  "I  —  I  have  supper  with  Mrs. 
Worksop,"  says  he. 

"  D — n  it,"  sa3's  my  lord,  "  thou  shalt  sup  with  us,  Harr3^, 
to-night!  Shan't  refuse  a  lad3',  shall  he,  Trix?"  —  and  they 
all  wondered  at  Harry's  performance  as  a  trencher-man,  in 


8  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

which  character  the  poor  boy  acquitted  himself  ver}"  remark- 
ably ;  for  the  truth  is  he  had  had  no  dinner,  nobody  thinking 
of  him  in  the  bustle  which  the  house  was  in,  during  the  prepa- 
rations antecedent  to  the  new  lord's  arrival. 

"  No  dinner  !  poor  dear  child  !  "  says  my  lady,  heaping  up 
Lis  plate  with  meat,  and  my  lord,  filling  a  bumper  for  him, 
bade  him  call  a  health  ;  on  which  Master  Harry,  crying  "  The 
King,"  tossed  off  the  wine.  My  lord  was  ready  to  drink  that, 
and  most  other  toasts  :  indeed  onl}'  too  ready.  He  would  not 
hear  of  Doctor  Tusher  (the  Vicar  of  Castlewood,  who  came  to 
supper)  going  away  when  the  sweetmeats  were  brought :  he 
had  not  had  a  chaplain  long  enough,  he  said,  to  be  tired  of 
him :  so  his  reverence  kept  my  lord  company  for  some  hours 
over  a  pipe  and  a  punch-bowl ;  and  went  awa}^  home  with 
rather  a  reeling  gait,  and  declaring  a  dozen  of  times,  that  his 
lordship's  affability  surpassed  everj^  kindness  he  had  ever  had 
from  his  lordship's  gracious  famil3\ 

As  for  young  Esmond,  when  he  got  to  his  little  chamber,  it 
was  with  a  heart  full  of  surprise  and  gratitude  towards  the  new 
friends  whom  this  happy  da\'  had  brought  him.  He  was  up 
and  watching  long  before  the  house  was  astir,  longing  to  see 
that  fair  lady  and  her  children  —  that  kind  protector  and  pa- 
tron ;  and  only  fearful  lest  their  welcome  of  the  past  night 
should  in  an}'  way  be  withdrawn  or  altered.  But  presently  little 
Beatrix  came  out  into  the  garden,  and  her  mother  followed, 
who  greeted  Hany  as  kindl}"  as  before.  He  told  her  at  greater 
length  the  histories  of  the  house  (which  he  had  been  taught  in 
the  old  lord's  time),  and  to  which  she  listened  with  great  inter- 
est ;  and  then  he  told  her,  with  respect  to  the  night  before, 
that  he  understood  French,  and  thanked  her  for  her  protec- 
tion. 

"  Do  you?"  says  she,  with  a  blush ;  "  then,  sir,  jon  shall 
teach  me  and  Beatrix."  And  she  asked  him  man^^  more  ques- 
tions regarding  himself,  which  had  best  be  told  more  fully  and 
explicitly  than  in  those  brief  replies  which  the  lad  made  to  his 
mistress's  questions. 


THE  HISTOKY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 


CHAPTER  II. 

RELATES   HOW   FRANCIS,    FOURTH    VISCOUNT,    ARRIVES    AT   CASTLE- 
WOOD. 

'Tis  known  that  the  name  of  Esmond  and  the  estate  of 
Castlewood,  com.  Hants,  came  into  possession  of  the  present 
family  through  Dorothea,  daughter  and  heiress  of  Edward, 
Earl  and  Marquis  Esmond,  and  Lord  of  Castlewood,  wiiich 
lady  married,  23  Eliz.,  Henry  Poyns,  gent.;  the  said  Henry 
being  then  a  page  in  the  household  of  her  father.  Francis, 
son  and  heir  of  the  above  Henry  and  Dorothea,  who  took  the 
maternal  name  which  the  family  hath  borne  subsequently-,  was 
made  Knight  and  Baronet  by  King  James  the  First ;  and 
being  of  a  military  disposition,  remained  long  in  Germany 
with  the  Elector- Palatine,  in  whose  service  Sir  Francis  incurred 
both  expense  and  danger,  lending  large  sums  of  mone}'  to  that 
unfortunate  Prince  ;  and  receiving  man}^  wounds  in  the  battles 
against  the  Imperialists,  in  which  Sir  Francis  engaged. 

On  his  return  home  Sir  Francis  was  rewarded  for  his  ser- 
vices and  many  sacrifices,  by  his  late  Majesty  James  the  First, 
who  graciously  conferred  upon  this  tried  servant  the  post  of 
Warden  of  the  Butteries  and  Groom  of  the  King's  Posset, 
which  high  and  confidential  office  he  filled  in  that  king's  and 
his  unhappy  successor's  reign. 

His  age,  and  many  wounds  and  infirmities,  obliged  Sir 
Francis  to  perform  much  of  his  duty  by  deputy ;  and  his  son. 
Sir  George  Esmond,  knight  and  banneret,  first  as  his  father's 
lieutenant,  and  afterwards  as  inheritor  of  his  father's  title  and 
dignity,  performed  this  office  during  almost  the  whole  of  the 
reign  of  King  Charles  the  First,  and  his  two  sons  who  suc- 
ceeded him. 

Sir  George  Esmond  married,  rather  beneath  the  rank  that 
a  person  of  his  name  and  honor  might  aspire  to,  the  daughter 
of  Thos.  Topham,  of  the  city  of  London,  alderman  and  gold- 
smith, who,  taking  the  Parliamentary  side  in  the  troubles  then 
commencing,  disappointed  Sir  George  of  the  property  which 
he  expected  at  the  demise  of  his  father-in-law,  who  devised 
his  money  to  his  second  daughter,  Barbara,  a  spinster. 

Sir  George  Esmond,  on  his  part,  was  conspicuous  for  his 
attachment  and  loyalty  to  the  Royal  cause  and  person ;  and 


10  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOXD. 

the  King  being  at  Oxford  in  1642,  Sir  George,  with  the  consent 
of  his  father,  then  very  aged  and  infirm,  and  residing  at  his 
house  of  Castle  wood,  melted  the  whole  of  the  family  plate  for 
his  Majest3's  service. 

For  this,  and  other  sacrifices  and  merits,  his  Majesty,  by 
patent  under  the  Priv}^  Seal,  dated  Oxford,  Jan.,  1643,  was 
pleased  to  advance  Sir  Francis  Esmond  to  the  dignity  of  Vis- 
count Castlewood,  of  Shandon,  in  Ireland :  and  the  Viscount's 
estate  being  much  impoverished  by  loans  to  the  King,  which  in 
those  troublesome  times  his  Majest}"  could  not  repa}',  a  grant  of 
land  in  the  plantations  of  Virginia  was  given  to  the  Lord  Vis- 
count ;  part  of  which  land  is  in  possession  of  descendants  of  his 
family  to  the  present  day. 

The  first  Viscount  Castlewood  died  full  of  years,  and  within  a 
few  months  after  he  had  been  advanced  to  his  honors.  He  was 
succeeded  by  his  eldest  son,  the  before-named  George  ;  and  left 
issue  besides,  Thomas,  a  colonel  in  the  King's  armj',  who  after- 
wards joined  the  Usurper's  Government ;  and  Francis,  in  holy 
orders,  who  was  slain  whilst  defending  the  House  of  Castlewood 
against  the  Parliament,  anno  1647. 

George  Lord  Castlewood  (the  second  Viscount),  of  King 
Charles  the  First's  time,  had  no  male  issue  save  his  one  son, 
Eustace  P^smond,  who  was  killed,  with  half  of  the  Castlewood 
men  beside  him,  at  Worcester  fight.  The  lands  about  Castle- 
wood were  sold  and  apportioned  to  the  Commonwealth  men  ; 
Castlewood  being  concerned  in  almost  all  of  the  plots  against 
the  Protector,  after  the  death  of  the  King,  and  up  to  King 
Charles  the  Second's  restoration.  My  lord  followed  that  king's 
Court  about  in  its  exile,  having  ruined  himself  in  its  service. 
He  had  but  one  daughter,  who  was  of  no  great  comfort  to  her 
father ;  for  misfortune  had  not  taught  those  exiles  sobriety  of 
life  ;  and  it  is  said  that  the  Duke  of  York  and  his  brother  the 
King  both  quarrelled  about  Isabel  Esmond.  She  was  maid  of 
honor  to  the  Queen  Henrietta  Maria  ;  she  earl}^  joined  the  Roman 
Church  ;  her  father,  a  weak  man,  following  her  not  long  after  at 
Breda. 

On  the  death  of  Eustace  Esmond  at  Worcester,  Thomas 
Esmond,  nephew  to  my  Lord  Castlewood,  and  then  a  stripling, 
became  heir  to  the  title.  His  father  had  taken  the  Parliament 
side  in  the  quarrels,  and  so  had  been  estranged  from  the  chief 
of  his  house  ;  and  m}"  Lord  Castlewood  was  at  first  so  much  en- 
raged to  think  that  his  title  (albeit  little  more  than  an  emptj* 
one  now)  should  pass  to  a  rascally  Roundhead,  that  he  would 
have  married  again,  and  indeed  proposed  to  do  so  to  a  A'intner's 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HEXRY  ESMOND.  11 

daughter  at  Bruges,  to  whom  his  lordship  owed  a  score  for 
lodging  when  the  King  was  there,  but  for  fear  of  the  laughter 
of  the  Court,  and  the  anger  of  his  daughter,  of  whom  he  stood 
in  awe ;  for  she  was  in  temper  as  imperious  and  violent  as  my 
lord,  who  was  much  enfeebled  by  wounds  and  drinking,  was 
weak. 

.Lord  Castlewood  would  have  had  a  match  between  his 
daughter  Isabel  ajid  her  cousin,  the  son  of  that  Francis  Esmond 
who  was  killed  at  Castlewood  siege.  And  the  lady,  it  was  said, 
took  a  fancy  to  the  young  man,  who  was  her  junior  by  several 
years  (which  circumstance  she  did  not  consider  to  be  a  fault  in 
him)  ;  but  having  paid  his  court,  and  being  admitted  to  the 
intimac}'  of  the  house,  he  suddenl}^  flung  up  his  suit,  when  it 
seemed  to  be  pretty  prosperous,  without  giving  a  pretext  for 
his  behavior.  His  friends  rallied  him  at  what  they  iaughingl3^ 
chose  to  call  his  infidelity  ;  Jack  Churchill,  Frank  Esmond's 
lieutenant  in  the  Royal  Regiment  of  Foot-guards,  getting  the 
company  which  Esmond  vacated,  when  he  left  the  Court  and 
went  to  Tangier  in  a  rage  at  discovering  that  his  promotion 
depended  on  the  complaisance  of  his  elderly  affianced  bride. 
He  and  Churchill,  who  had  been  condiscipuli  at  St.  Paul's 
School,  had  words  about  this  matter ;  and  Frank  Esmond  said 
to  him  with  an  oath,  "  Jack,  3'our  sister  ma}'  be  so-and-so,  but 
by  Jove  m}'  wife  shan't !  "  and  swords  were  drawn,  and  blood 
drawn  too,  until  friends  separated  them  on  this  quarrel.  Few 
men  were  so  jealous  about  the  point  of  honor  in  those  days ; 
and  gentlemen  of  good  birth  and  lineage  thought  a  royal  blot 
was  an  ornament  to  their  family  coat.  Frank  Esmond  retired 
in  the  sulks,  first  to  Tangier,  whence  he  returned  after  two 
years'  service,  settling  on  a  small  propert}'  he  had  of  his  mother, 
near  to  Winchester,  and  became  a  country  gentleman,  and  kept 
a  pack  of  beagles,  and  never  came  to  Court  again  in  King 
Charles's  time.  But  his  uncle  Castlewood  was  never  reconciled 
to  him  ;  nor,  for  some  time  afterwards,  his  cousin  whom  he 
had  refused. 

By  places,  pensions,  bounties  from  France,  and  gifts  from 
the  King,  whilst  his  daughter  was  in  favor.  Lord  Castlewood, 
who  had  spent  in  the  Royal  service  his  3"Outh  and  fortune,  did 
not  retrieve  the  latter  quite,  and  never  cared  to  visit  Castle- 
wood, or  repair  it,  since  the  death  of  his  son,  but  managed  to 
keep  a  good  house,  and  figure  at  Court,  and  to  save  a  consider- 
able sum  of  read}"  money. 

,  And  now,  his  heir  and  nephew,  Thomas  Esmond,  began  to 
bid  for  his  uncle's  favor.    Thomas  had  served  with  the  Emperor, 


12  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

and  with  the  Dutch,  when  King  Charles  was  compelled  to  lend 
troops  to  the  States  ;  and  against  them,  when  his  Majesty  made 
an  alliance  with  the  French  King.  In  these  campaigns  Thomas 
Esmond  was  more  remarked  for  duelling,  brawling,  vice,  and 
play,  than  for  any  conspicuous  gallantry  in  the  field,  and  came 
back  to  England,  like  many  another  English  gentleman  who 
has  travelled,  with  a  character  by  no  means  improved  b}'  his 
foreign  experience.  He  had  dissipated  his  small  paternal  in- 
heritance of  a  younger  brother's  portion,  and,  as  truth  must 
be  told,  was  no  better  than  a  hanger-on  of  ordinaries,  and  a 
brawler  about  Alsatia  and  the  Friars,  when  he  bethought  him 
of  a  means  of  mending  his  fortune. 

His  cousin  was  now  of  more  than  middle  age,  and  had 
nobody's  word  but  her  own  for  the  beauty  which  she  said  she 
once  possessed.  She  was  lean,  and  j'ellow,  and  long  in  the 
tooth  ;  all  the  red  and  white  in  all  the  toy-shops  in  London 
could  not  make  a  beauty  of  her  —  Mr.  Killigrew  called  her  the 
Sybil,  the  death's-head  put  up  at  the  King's  feast  as  a  memento 
mori^  &c.  —  in  fine,  a  woman  who  might  be  easy  of  conquest, 
but  whom  only  a  very  bold  man  would  think  of  conquering. 
This  bold  man  was  Thomas  Esmond.  He  had  a  fancy  to  my 
Lord  Castlewood's  savings,  the  amount  of  which  rumor  had  very 
much  exaggerated.  Madame  Isabel  was  said  to  have  Royal 
jewels  of  great  value  ;  whereas  poor  Tom  Esmond's  last  coat 
but  one  was  in  pawn. 

My  lord  had  at  this  time  a  fine  house  in  Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 
nigh  to  the  Duke's  Theatre  and  the  Portugal  ambassador's 
chapel.  Tom  Esmond,  who  had  frequented  the  one  as  long 
as  he  had  money  to  spend  among  the  actresses,  now  came  to 
the  church  as  assiduously.  He  looked  so  lean  and  shabb}^ 
that  he  passed  without  difficulty  for  a  repentant  sinner  ;  and  so, 
becoming  converted,  3'ou  may  be  sure  took  his  uncle's  priest 
for  a  director. 

This  charitable  father  reconciled  him  with  the  old  lord,  his 
uncle,  who  a  short  time  before  would  not  speak  to  him,  as  Tom 
passed  under  my  lord's  coach  window,  his  lordship  going  in 
state  to  his  place  at  Court,  while  his  nephew  slunk  bj'  with  his 
battered  hat  and  feather,  and  the  point  of  his  rapier  sticking 
out  of  the  scabbard  —  to  his  twopenny  ordinary  in  Bell  Yard. 

Thomas  Esmond,  after  this  reconcihation  with  his  uncle, 
very  soon  began  to  grow  sleek,  and  to  show  signs  of  the  benefits 
of  good  living  and  clean  linen.  He  fasted  rigorouslj^  twice  a 
week,  to  be  sure  ;  but  he  made  amends  on  the  other  daj^s  :  and, 
to  show  how  great  his  appetite  was,  Mr.  Wycherley  said,  he 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HEiN'RY  ESMOND.  13 

ended  by  swallowing  that  fly-blown  rank  old  morsel  his  cousin. 
There  were  endless  jokes  and  lampoons  about  this  marriage  at 
Court :  but  Tom  rode  thither  in  his  uncle's  coach  now,  called 
him  father,  and  having  won  could  afford  to  laugh.  This  mar- 
riage took  place  very  shortl}'  before  King  Charles  died  :  whom 
the  Viscount  of  Castlewood  speedilj'  followed. 

The  issue  of  this  marriage  was  one  son,  whom  the  parents 
watched  with  an  intense  eagerness  and  care  ;  but  who,  in  spite 
of  nurses  and  ph3'sicians,  had  only  a  brief  existence.  His 
tainted  blood  did  not  run  very  long  in  his  poor  feeble  little 
body.  Symptoms  of  evil  broke  out  early  on  him ;  and,  part 
from  flattery,  part  superstition,  nothing  would  satisfy  my  lord 
and  lady,  especially  the  latter,  but  having  the  poor  little  cripple 
touched  by  his  Majesty  at  his  church.  They  were  ready  to  cry 
out  miracle  at  first  (the  doctors  and  quack-salvers  being  con- 
stantly in  attendance  on  the  child,  and  experimenting  on  his 
poor  little  body  with  every  conceivable  nostrum)  —  but  though 
there  seemed,  from  some  reason,  a  notable  amelioration  in  the 
infant's  health  after  his  Majesty  touched  him,  in  a  few  weeks 
afterward  the  poor  thing  died  —  causing  the  lampooners  of  the 
Court  to  say,  that  the  King,  in  expelling  evil  out  of  the  infant 
of  Tom  Esmond  and  Isabella  his  wife,  expelled  the  life  out  of 
it,  which  was  nothing  but  corruption. 

The  mother's  natural  pang  at  losing  this  poor  little  child 
must  have  been  increased  when  she  thought  of  her  rival  Frank 
Esmond's  wife,  who  was  a  favorite  of  the  whole  Court,  where 
my  poor  Lady  Castlewood  was  neglected,  and  who  had  one 
child,  a  daughter,  flourishing  and  beautiful,  and  was  about  to 
become  a  mother  once  more. 

The  Court,  as  I  have  heard,  onl}'  laughed  the  more  because 
the  poor  lady,  who  had  pretty  well  passed  the  age  when  ladies 
are  accustomed  to  have  children,  nevertheless  determined  not 
to  give  hope  up,  and  even  when  she  came  to  live  at  Castlewood, 
was  constantly  sending  over  to  Hexton  for  the  doctor,  and 
announcing  to  her  friends  the  arrival  of  an  heir.  This  absurdity 
of  hers  was  one  amongst  many  others  which  the  wags  used  to 
jjlay  upon.  Indeed,  to  the  last  days  of  her  life,  my  Lady 
Viscountess  had  the  comfort  of  fancying  herself  beautiful,  and 
persisted  in  blooming  up  to  the  very  midst  of  winter,  painting 
roses  on  her  cheeks  long  after  their  natural  season,  and  attiring 
herself  like  summer  though  her  head  was  covered  with  snow. 

Gentlemen  who  were  about  the  Court  of  King  Charles,  and 
King  James,  have  told  the  present  writer  a  number  of  stories 
abbut  this  queer  old  lady,  with  which  it's  not  necessary  that 


14  THE  PIISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

posterity  should  be  entertained.  She  is  said  to  have  had  great 
powers  of  invective ;  and,  if  she  fought  with  all  her  rivals  in 
King  James's  favor,  'tis  certain  she  must  have  had  a  vast 
number  of  quarrels  on  her  hands.  She  was  a  woman  of  an 
intrepid  spirit,  and,  it  appears,  pursued  and  rather  fatigued  his 
Majesty  with  her  rights  and  her  wrongs.  Some  say  that  the 
cause  of  her  leaving  Court  was  jealousy  of  Frank  Esmond's 
wife  :  others,  that  she  was  forced  to  retreat  after  a  great  battle 
which  took  place  at  Whitehall,  between  her  ladyship  and  Lad}^ 
Dorchester,  Tom  Killigrew's  daughter,  whom  the  King  delighted 
to  honor,  and  in  which  that  ill-favored  Esther  got  the  better 
of  our  elderly-  Vashti.  But  her  ladyship,  for  her  part,  always 
averred  that  it  was  her  husband's  quarrel,  and  not  her  own, 
which  occasioned  the  banishment  of  the  two  into  the  country ; 
and  the  cruel  ingratitude  of  the  Sovereign  in  giving  awa}^,  out 
of  the  family,  that  place  of  Warden  of  the  Butteries  and  Groom 
of  the  King's  Posset,  which  the  two  last  Lords  Castlewood  had 
held  so  honorably,  and  which  was  now  conferred  upon  a  fellow 
of  3'esterda_y,  and  a  hanger-on  of  that  udious  Dorchester  creature, 
my  Lord  Bergamot ;  *  ''I  never,"  said  m}' lady,  "could  have 
come  to  see  his  Majesty's  posset  carried  by  an}'^  other  hand 
than  an  Esmond.  I  should  have  dashed  the  salver  out  of  Lord 
Bergamot's  hand,  had  I  met  him."  And  those  who  knew  her 
ladj'ship  are  aware  that  she  was  a  person  quite  capable  of  per- 
forming this  feat,  had  she  not  wiseh'  kept  out  of  the  way. 

Holding  the  purse-strings  in  her  own  control,  to  which, 
indeed,  she  liked  to  bring  most  persons  who  came  near  her. 
Lad}'  Castlewood  could  command  her  husband's  obedience,  and 
so  broke  up  her  establishment  at  London ;  she  had  removed 
from  Lincoln's-Inn-Fields  to  Chelse^^,  to  a  pretty  new  house 
she  bought  there ;  and  brought  her  establishment,  her  maids, 
lap-dogs,  and  gentlewomen,  her  priest,  and  his  lordship  her 
husband,  to  Castlewood  Hall,  that  she  had  never  seen  since 
she  quitted  it  as  a  child  with  her  father  during  the  troubles  of 
King  Charles  the  First's  reign.  The  walls  were  still  open  in 
the  old  house  as  they  had  been  left  b}'  the  shot  of  the  Common- 
wealthmen.  A  part  of  the  mansion  was  restored  and  furbished 
up  with  the  plate,  hangings,  and  furniture  brought  from  the 

*  Lionel  Tipton,  created  Baron  Bergamot,  ann.  1686,  Gentleman  Usher 
of  the  Back  Stairs,  and  afterwards  appointed  Warden  of  the  Butteries  and 
Groom  of  the  King's  Posset  (on  the  decease  of  George,  second  Viscount 
Castlewood),  accompanied  his  Majesty  to  St.  Germain's,  where  he  died 
without  issue.  No  Groom  of  the  Posset  was  appointed  by  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  nor  hath  there  been  such  an  officer  in  any  succeeding  reign. 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HEXRY  ESMOND.  15 

house  in  London.  My  lad}^  meant  to  have  a  triumphal  entry 
into  Castle  wood  village,  and  expected  the  people  to  cheer  as 
she  drove  over  the  Green  in  her  great  coach,  my  lord  beside 
her,  her  gentlewomen,  lap-dogs,  and  cockatoos  on  the  opposite 
seat,  six  horses  to  her  carriage,  and  servants  armed  and  mounted 
following  it  and  preceding  it.  But  'twas  in  the  height  of  the 
No-Popery  cr}" ;  the  folks  in  the  village  and  the  neighboring 
town  were  scared  by  the  sight  of  her  ladj'ship's  painted  face 
and  eyelids,  as  she  bobbed  her  head  out  of  the  coach  window, 
meaning,  no  doubt,  to  be  very  gracious  ;  and  one  old  woman 
said,  "  Lad}-  Isabel !  lord-a-mercy,  it's  Lady  Jezebel !  "  a  name 
by  which  the  enemies  of  the  right  honorable  Viscountess  were 
afterwards  in  the  habit  of  designating  her.  The  countrj"  was 
then  in  a  great  No-Poper}^  fervor ;  her  ladj^ship's  known  con- 
version, and  her  husband's,  the  priest  in  her  train,  and  the 
service  performed  at  the  chapel  of  Castlewood  (though  the 
chapel  had  been  built  for  that  worship  before  any  other  was 
heard  of  in  the  country,  and  though  the  service  was  performed 
in  the  most  quiet  manner),  got  her  no  favor  at  first  in  the 
county  or  village.  By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  estate  of 
Castlewood  had  been  confiscated,  and  been  parcelled  out  to 
Commonwealthmen.  One  or  two  of  these  old  Cromwellian 
soldiers  were  still  alive  in  the  village,  and  looked  griml}^  at  first 
upon  my  Lad}^  Viscountess,  when  she  came  to  dwell  there. 

She  appeared  at  the  Hexton  Assembly,  bringing  her  lord 
after  her,  scaring  the  country  folks  with  the  splendor  of  her 
diamonds,  which  she  always  wore  in  public.  They  said  she 
wore  them  in  private,  too,  and  slept  with  them  round  her  neck ; 
though  the  writer  can  pledge  his  word  that  this  was  a  calumu}'. 
"  If  she  were  to  take  them  off*,"  my  Lady  Sark  said,  "Tom 
Esmond,  her  husband,  would  run  away  with  them  and  pawn 
them."  'Twas  another  calumny.  My  Lady  Sark  was  also  an 
exile  from  Court,  and  there  had  been  war  between  the  two 
ladies  before. 

The  village  people  began  to  be  reconciled  presentl}^  to  their 
lady,  who  was  generous  and  kind,  though  fantastic  and  haughtj-, 
in  her  waj's  ;  and  whose  praises  Dr.  Tusher,  the  Vicar,  sounded 
loudly  amongst  his  flock.  As  for  my  lord,  he  gave  no  great 
trouble,  being  considered  scarce  more  than  an  appendage  to 
my  lad}^  who,  as  daughter  of  the  old  lords  of  Castlewood,  and 
possessor  of  vast  wealth,  as  the  country  folks  said  (though 
indeed  nine-tenths  of  it  existed  but  in  rumor),  was  looked 
upon  as  the  real  queen  of  the  Castle,  and  mistress  of  all  it 
(Contained. 


16  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHITHER   IN   THE    TIME    OF   THOMAS,    THIRD    VISCOUNT,    I   HAD 
PRECEDED    HIM   AS    PAGE   TO    ISABELLA. 

Coming  up  to  London  again  some  short  time  after  this  re- 
treat, the  Lord  Castlewood  despatched  a  retainer  of  his  to  a 
little  cottage  in  the  village  of  Ealing,  near  to  London,  where 
for  some  time  had  dwelt  an  old  French  refugee,  by  name  Mr. 
Pastoureau,  one  of  those  whom  the  persecution  of  the  Hugue- 
nots by  the  French  king  had  brought  over  to  this  countr3\ 
With  this  old  man  lived  a  Uttle  lad,  who  went  by  the  name  of 
Henry  Thomas.  He  remembered  to  have  lived  in  another 
place  a  short  time  before,  near  to  London  too,  amongst  looms 
and  spinning-wheels,  and  a  great  deal  of  psalm-singing  and 
church-going,  and  a  whole  colon}^  of  Frenchmen. 

There  he  had  a  dear,  dear  friend,  who  died,  and  whom  he 
called  Aunt.  She  used  to  visit  him  in  his  dreams  sometimes  ; 
and  her  face,  though  it  was  homeh',  was  a  thousand  times 
dearer  to  him  than  that  of  Mrs.  Pastoureau,  Bon  Papa  Pastou- 
reau's  new  wife,  who  came  to  live  with  him  after  aunt  went 
away.  And  there,  at  Spittlefields,  as  it  used  to  be  called, 
lived  Uncle  George,  who  was  a  weaver  too,  but  used  to  tell 
Harry  that  he  was  a  little  gentleman,  and  that  his  father  was  a 
captain,  and  his  mother  an  angel. 

When  he  said  so,  Bon  Papa  used  to  look  up  from  the  loom, 
where  he  was  embroidering  beautiful  silk  flowers,  and  say, 
"  Angel !  she  belongs  to  the  Babylonish  scarlet  woman."  Bon 
Papa  was  always  talking  of  the  scarlet  woman.  He  had  a 
little  room  where  he  always  used  to  preach  and  sing  h^^mns 
out  of  his  great  old  nose.  Little  Harrj'  did  not  like  the  preach- 
ing ;  he  liked  better  the  fine  stories  which  aunt  used  to  tell 
him.  Bon  Papa's  wife  never  told  him  pretty  stories  ;  she  quar- 
relled with  Uncle  George,  and  he  went  away. 

After  this,  Harry's  Bon  Papa  and  his  wife  and  two  children 
of  her  own  that  she  brought  with  her,  came  to  live  at  Ealing. 
The  new  wife  gave  her  children  the  best  of  everything,  and 
Harrj-  manj-  a  whipping,  he  knew  not  why.  Besides  blows,  he 
got  ill  names  from  her,  which  need  not  be  set  down  here,  for 
the  sake  of  old  Mr.  Pastoureau,  who  was  still  kind  sometimes. 
The  unhappiness  of  those  days  is  long  forgiven,  though  they 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  17 

cast  a  shade  of  melanchol}^  over  the  child's  youth,  which  will 
accompan}^  him,  no  doubt,  to  the  end  of  his  days :  as  those 
tender  twigs  are  bent  the  trees  grow  afterward ;  and  he,  at 
least,  who  has  suffered  as  a  child,  and  is  not  quite  perverted  in 
that  early  school  of  unhappiness,  learns  to  be  gentle  and  long- 
suffering  with  little  children. 

Ilarr}'  was  very  glad  when  a  gentleman  dressed  in  black, 
on  horseback,  with  a  mounted  servant  behind  him,  came  to 
fetch  him  awaj^  from  Ealing.  The  noverca,  or  unjust  step- 
mother, who  had  neglected  him  for  her  own  two  children,  gave 
him  supper  enough  the  night  before  he  went  away,  and  plenty 
in  the  morning.  She  did  not  beat  him  once,  and  told  the  chil- 
dren to  keep  their  hands  off  him.  One  was  a  girl,  and  Harry 
never  could  bear  to  strike  a  girl ;  and  the  other  was  a  boy, 
whom  he  could  easily  have  beat,  but  he  alwaj's  cried  out,  when 
Mrs.  Pastoureau  came  sailing  to  the  rescue  with  arms  like  a 
flail.  She  onl}'  washed  Harry's  face  the  day  he  went  away ; 
nor  ever  so  much  as  once  boxed  his  ears.  She  whimpered 
rather  when  the  gentleman  in  black  came  for  the  bo}-  ;  and  old 
Mr.  Pastoureau,  as  he  gave  the  child  his  blessing,  scowled  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  strange  gentleman,  and  grumbled  out  some- 
thing about  Babylon  and  the  scarlet  lady.  He  was  grown  quite 
old,  like  a  child  almost.  Mrs.  Pastoureau  used  to  wipe  his 
nose  as  she  did  to  the  children.  She  was  a  great,  big,  hand- 
some young  woman  ;  but,  though  she  pretended  to  cr}',  Harry 
thought  'twas  only  a  sham,  and  sprung  quite  delighted  upon 
the  horse  upon  which  the  lacke}-  helped  him. 

He  was  a  Frenchman  ;  his  name  was  Blaise.  The  child 
could  talk  to  him  in  his  own  language  perfectl}^  well :  he  knew 
it  better  than  English  indeed,  having  lived  hitherto  chiefly 
among  French  people :  and  being  called  the  Little  Frenchman 
b}^  other  boys  on  Ealing  Green.  He  soon  learnt  to  speak  Eng- 
lish perfectly,  and  to  forget  some  of  his  French :  children  for- 
get easil3\  Some  earlier  and  fainter  recollections  the  child 
had  of  a  different  country  ;  and  a  town  with  tall  white  houses  : 
and  a  ship.  But  these  were  quite  indistinct  in  the  boy's  mind, 
as  indeed  the  memor}^  of  Ealing  soon  became,  at  least  of  much 
that  he  suffered  there. 

The  lackey  before  whom  he  rode  was  very  lively  and  volu- 
ble, and  informed  the  bo}"  that  the  gentleman  riding  before  him 
was  my  lord's  chaplain.  Father  Holt — that  he  was  now  to  be 
called  Master  Harry  Esmond  —  that  my  Lord  Viscount  Castle- 
wood  was  his  parrain  —  that  he  was  to  live  at  the  great  house 
of  Castlewood,  in  the  province  of shire,  where  he  would  see 


18  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

Madame  the  Viscountess,  who  was  a  grand  lady.  And  so, 
seated  on  a  cloth  before  Blaise's  saddle,  Harry  Esmond  was 
brought  to  London,  and  to  a  fine  square  called  Covent  Garden, 
near  to  which  his  patron  lodged. 

Mr.  Holt,  the  priest,  took  the  child  by  the  hand,  and  brought 
him  to  this  nobleman,  a  grand  languid  nobleman  in  a  great 
cap  and  flowered  morning-gown,  sucking  oranges.  He  patted 
Harry  on  the  head  and  gave  him  an  orange. 

"  C'est  bien  9a,"  he  said  to  the  priest  after  Gjing  the  child, 
and  the  gentleman  in  black  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Let  Blaise  take  him  out  for  a  holiday,"  and  out  for  a  holi- 
da}'  the  boy  and  the  valet  went.  Harry  went  jumping  along ; 
he  was  glad  enough  to  go. 

He  will  remember  to  his  life's  end  the  dehghts  of  those  da3-s. 
He  was  taken  to  see  a  play  by  Monsieur  Blaise,  in  a  house  a 
thousand  times  greater  and  finer  than  the  booth  at  Ealing  Fair 
—  and  on  the  next  happy  day  they  took  water  on  the  river, 
and  Harry  saw  London  Bridge,  with  the  houses  and  booksellers' 
shops  thereon,  looking  like  a  street,  and  the  Tower  of  London, 
with  the  Armor,  and  the  great  lions  and  bears  in  the  moat  — 
all  under  company  of  Monsieur  Blaise. 

Presently,  of  an  early  morning,  all  the  part}^  set  forth  for 
the  countrj^,  namely,  my  Lord  Viscount  and  the  other  gentle- 
man ;  Monsieur  Blaise  arM  Harry  on  a  pillion  behind  them, 
and  two  or  three  men  with  pistols  leading  the  baggage-horses. 
And  all  along  the  road  the  Frenchman  told  little  Hany  stories 
of  brigands,  which  made  the  child's  hair  stand  on  end,  and 
terrified  him  ;  so  that  at  the  great  gloomy  inn  on  the  road 
where  the}'  lay,  he  besought  to  be  allowed  to  sleep  in  a  room 
with  one  of  the  servants,  and  was  compassionated  by  Mr.  Holt, 
the  gentleman  who  travelled  with  my  lord,  and  who  gave  the 
child  a  little  bed  in  his  chamber. 

His  artless  talk  and  answers  very  likely  inclined  this  gentle- 
man in  the  boy's  favor,  for  next  day  Mr.  Holt  said  Hany 
should  ride  behind  him,  and  not  with  the  French  lackj^ ;  and 
all  along  the  journe}^  put  a  thousand  questions  to  the  child  — 
as  to  his  foster-brother  and  relations  at  Ealing ;  what  his  old 
grandfather  had  taught  him  ;  what  languages  he  knew  ;  whether 
he  could  read  and  write,  and  sing,  and  so  forth.  And  Mr. 
Holt  found  that  Harr}'  could  read  and  write,  and  possessed  the 
two  languages  of  French  and  English  very  well ;  and  when  he 
asked  Harry  about  singing,  the  lad  broke  out  with  a  hymn  to 
the  tune  of  Dr.  Martin  Luther,  which  set  Mr.  Holt  a-laughing  ; 
and  even  caused  his  grand  par  rain  in  the  laced  hat  and  periwig 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOJ^D.  19 

to  langh  too  when  Holt  told  him  what  the  child  was  singing. 
For  it  appeared  that  Dr.  Martin  Luther's  hymns  were  not  sung 
in  the  churches  Mr.  Holt  preached  at. 

"You  must  never  sing  that  song  an}^  more:  do  3'ou 
hear,  little  mannikin  ?  "  sa^'s  my  Lord  Viscount,  holding  up  a 
finger. 

"But  we  will  try  and  teach  you  a  better,  Harry,"  Mr.  Holt 
said ;  and  the  child  answered,  for  he  was  a  docile  child,  and  of 
an  affectionate  nature,  "  That  he  loved  pretty  songs,  and  would 
tr}^  and  learn  an3'thing  the  gentleman  would  tell  him."  That 
day  he  so  pleased  the  gentlemen  by  his  talk,  that  they  had  him 
to  dine  with  them  at  the  inn,  and  encouraged  him  in  his  prattle  ; 
and  Monsieur  Blaise,  with  whom  he  rode  and  dined  the  day 
before,  waited  upon  him  now. 

"'Tis  well,  'tis  well!"  said  Blaise,  that  night  (in  his  own 
language)  when  the}-  la}-  again  at  an  inn.  "  We  are  a  little 
lord  here ;  we  are  a  little  lord  now :  we  shall  see  what  we  are 
when  we  come  to  Castlewood,  where  my  lady  is." 

"When  shall  we  come  to  Castlewood,  Monsieur  Blaise?" 
says  Harry. 

^^  Par  bleu  !  my  lord  does  not  press  himself,"  Blaise  says, 
with  a  grin;  and,  indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  his  lordship  was  not 
in  a  great  hurry,  for  he  spent  three  days  on  that  journey  which 
Harry  Esmond  hath  often  since  ridden  in  a  dozen  hours.  For 
the  last  two  of  the  days  Harry  rode  with  the  priest,  who  was  so 
kind  to  him,  that  the  child  had  grown  to  be  quite  fond  and 
familiar  with  him  by  tlie  journey's  end,  and  had  scarce  a  thought 
in  his  little  heart  which  by  that  time  he  had  not  confided  to  his 
new  friend. 

At  length,  on  the  third  day,  at  evening,  they  came  to  a 
village  standing  on  a  green  with  elms  round  it,  very  pretty  to 
look  at ;  and  the  people  there  all  took  off  their  hats,  and  made 
curtsies  to  my  Lord  Viscount,  who  bowed  to  them  all  lan- 
guidly ;  and  there  was  one  portly  person  that  wore  a  cassock 
and  a  broad-leafed  hat,  who  bowled  lower  than  any  one  —  and 
with  this  one  both  my  lord  and  Mr.  Holt  had  a  few  words. 
"This,  Harry,  is  Castlewood  church,"  says  Mr.  Holt,  "and 
this  is  the  pillar  thereof,  learned  Doctor  Tusher.  Take  off 
your  hat,  sirrah,  and  salute  Dr.  Tusher !  " 

"  Come  up  to  supper,  Doctor,"  says  my  lord  ;  at  which  the 
Doctor  made  another  low  bow,  and  the  party  moved  on  towards 
a  grand  house  that  was  before  them,  with  many  gray  towers 
and  vanes  on  them,  and  windows  flaming  in  the  sunshine  ;  and 
a  great  army  of  rooks,  wheeling  over  their  heads,  made  for  the 


20  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOXD. 

woods  behind  the  house,  as  Harr}^  saw ;  and  Mr.  Holt  told  him 
that  they  lived  at  Castlewood  too. 

The}"  came  to  the  house,  and  passed  under  an  arch  into  a 
court-yard,  with  a  fountain  in  the  centre,  where  many  men  came 
and  held  my  lord's  stirrup  as  he  descended,  and  paid  great 
respect  to  Mr.  Holt  likewise.  And  the  child  thought  that  the 
servants  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  smiled  to  one  another  — 
and  he  recalled  what  Blaise  had  said  to  him  when  the}'  were  in 
London,  and  Harry  had  spoken  about  his  godpapa,  when  the 
Frenchman  said,  '^  Parhleu^  one  sees  well  that  my  lord  is 
3'our  godfather  ;  "  words  wliereof  the  poor  lad  did  not  know  the 
meaning  then,  though  he  apprehended  the  truth  in  a  very  short 
time  afterwards,  and  learned  it,  and  thought  of  it  with  no 
small  feehng  of  shame. 

Taking  Harry  by  the  hand  as  soon  as  they  were  both  de- 
scended from  their  horses,  Mr.  Holt  led  him  across  the  court, 
and  under  a  low  door  to  rooms  on  a  level  with  the  ground  ;  one 
of  which  Father  Holt  said  was  to  be  the  boy's  chamber,  the 
other  on  the  other  side  of  the  passage  being  the  Father's  own  ; 
and  as  soon  as  the  little  man's  face  was  washed,  and  the 
Father's  own  dress  arranged,  Harr3''s  guide  took  him  once  more 
to  the  door  b}'  which  m}'  lord  had  entered  the  hall,  and  up  a 
stair,  and  through  an  ante-room  to  my  ladj^'s  drawing-room  — 
an  apartment  than  which  Harr}^  thought  he  had  never  seen 
anj'thing  more  grand  —  no,  not  in  the  Tower  of  London  which 
he  had  just  visited.  Indeed,  the  chamber  was  richl}^  orna- 
mented in  the  manner  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  with  great 
stained  windows  at  either  end,  and  hangings  of  tapestry,  which 
the  sun  shining  through  the  colored  glass  painted  of  a  thousand 
hues ;  and  here  in  state,  by  the  fire,  sat  a  lad}'  to  whom  the 
priest  took  up  Harrj',  who  was  indeed  amazed  by  her  ap- 
pearance. 

M}^  Lad}'  Viscountess's  face  was  daubed  with  white  and  red 
up  to  the  eyes,  to  which  the  paint  gave  an  unearthly  glare  :  she 
had  a  tower  of  lace  on  her  head,  under  which  was  a  bush  of 
black  curls  —  borrowed  curls  —  so  that  no  wonder  little  Harry 
Esmond  was  scared  when  he  was  first  presented  to  her  —  the 
kind  priest  acting  as  master  of  the  ceremonies  at  that  solemn 
introduction  —  and  he  stared  at  her  with  eyes  almost  as  great 
as  her  own,  as  he  had  stared  at  the  player  woman  who  acted 
the  wicked  tragedy-queen,  when  the  players  came  down  to 
Ealing  Fair.  She  sat  in  a  great  chair  by  the  fire-corner;  in 
her  lap  was  a  spaniel-dog  that  barked  furiously  ;  on  a  little 
table  by  her  was  her  ladyship's  snuff-box  and  her  sugar-plum 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  21 

box.  She  wore  a  dress  of  black  velvet,  and  a  petticoat  of 
flame-colored  brocade.  She  had  as  man}'-  rings  on  her  fingers 
as  the  old  woman  of  Banbury  Cross ;  and  prett}^  small  feet 
which  she  was  fond  of  showing,  with  great  gold  clocks  to  her 
stockings,  and  white  pantofles  with  red  heels ;  and  an  odor  of 
musk  was  shook  out  of  her  garments  whenever  she  moved  or 
quitted  the  room,  leaning  on  her  tortoise-shell  stick,  little  Fury 
barking  at  her  heels. 

Mrs.  Tusher,  the  parson's  wife,  was  with  my  lady.  She  had 
been  waiting-woman  to  her  ladyship  in  the  late  lord's  time,  and, 
having  her  soul  in  that  business,  took  naturally  to  it  when  the 
Viscountess  of  Castlewood  returned  to  inhabit  her  father's  house. 

''  I  present  to  3'our  ladyship  your  kinsman  and  little  page  of 
honor.  Master  Henry  Esmond,"  Mr.  Holt  said,  bowing  lowly, 
with  a  sort  of  comical  humility.  '^  Make  a  pretty  bow  to  my 
lady,  Monsieur ;  and  then  another  little  bow,  not  so  low,  to 
Madame  Tusher —  the  fair  priestess  of  Castlewood." 

"Where  I  have  lived  and  hope  to  die,  sir,"  says  Madame 
Tusher,  giving  a  hard  glance  at  the  brat,  and  then  at  my  lady. 

Upon  her  the  boy's  whole  attention  was  for  a  time  directed. 
He  could  not  keep  his  great  eyes  off  from  her.  Since  the  Em- 
press of  Ealing,  he  had  seen  nothing  so  awful. 

"Does  m}'  appearance  please  you,  little  page?"  asked  the 
lady. 

"  He  would  be  very  hard  to  please  if  it  didn't,"  cried  Madame 
Tusher. 

"  Have  done,  you  sill}^  Maria,"  said  Lad}-  Castlewood. 

"Where  Em  attached,  Em  attached,  Madame  —  and  Ed  die 
rather  than  not  say  so." 

"  Je  meurs  oil  je  m' attache,"  Mr.  Holt  said  with  a  polite  grin. 
"The  ivy  says  so  in  the  picture,  and  clings  to  the  oak  like  a 
fond  parasite  as  it  is." 

"  Parricide,  sir  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Tusher. 

"Hush,  Tusher  —  you  are  alwa3's  bickering  with  Father 
Holt,"  cried  my  lady.  "  Come  and  kiss  my  hand,  child  ;  "  and 
the  oak  held  out  a  branch  to  little  Harry  Esmond,  who  took  and 
dutifully  kissed  the  lean  old  hand,  upon  the  gnarled  knuckles 
of  which  there  glittered  a  hundred  rings. 

"  To  kiss  that  hand  would  make  many  a  pretty  fellow  happj' ! " 
cried  Mrs.  Tusher:  on  which  my  lady  crying  out,  "Go,  you 
foolish  Tusher ! "  and  tapping  her  with  her  great  fan,  Tusher 
ran  forward  to  seize  her  hand  and  kiss  it.  Fury  arose  and 
barked  furiously  at  Tusher  ;  and  Father  Holt  looked  on  at  this 
queer  scene,  with  arch,  grave  glances. 


22  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

The  awe  exhibited  by  the  little  boy  perhaps  pleased  the  lady 
to  whom  this  artless  flattery  was  bestowed :  for  having  gone 
down  on  his  knee  (as  Father  Holt  had  directed  him,  and  the 
mode  then  was)  and  performed  his  obeisance,  she  said,  "Page 
Esmond,  my  groom  of  the  chamber  will  inform  you  what  your 
duties  are,  when  you  wait  upon  my  lord  and  me  ;  and  good 
Father  Holt  will  instruct  you  as  becomes  a  gentleman  of  our 
name.  You  will  pa}^  him  obedience  in  everything,  and  I  pray 
3-0U  may  grow  to  be  as  learned  and  as  good  as  your  tutor." 

The  lad}'  seemed  to  have  the  greatest  reverence  for  Mr.  Holt, 
and  to  be  more  afraid  of  him  than  of  anything  else  in  the  world. 
If  she  was  ever  so  angry,  a  word  or  look  from  Father  Holt  made 
her  calm  :  indeed  he  had  a  vast  power  of  subjecting  those  who 
came  near  him  ;  and,  among  the  rest,  his  new  pupil  gave  him- 
self up  with  an  entire  confidence  and  attachment  to  the  good 
Father,  and  became  his  willing  slave  almost  from  the  first 
moment  he  saw  him. 

He  put  his  small  hand  into  the  Father's  as  he  walked  away 
from  his  first  presentation  to  his  mistress,  and  asked  many  ques- 
tions in  his  artless  childish  way.  "  Who  is  that  other  woman  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  She  is  fat  and  round  ;  she  is  more  pretty  than  my 
Lad}"  Castlewood." 

"  She  is  Madame  Tusher,  the  parson's  wife  of  Castlewood. 
She  has  a  son  of  3"0ur  age,  but  bigger  than  3"ou." 

"  Why  does  she  like  so  to  kiss  my  lad^^'s  hand.  It  is  not 
good  to  kiss." 

"Tastes  are  diflferent,  little  man.  Madame  Tusher  is  at- 
tached to  my  lady,  having  been  her  waiting-woman  before  she 
was  married,  in  the  old  lord's  time.  She  married  Doctor  Tusher 
the  chaplain.  The  English  household  divines  often  marry  the 
waiting-women." 

"  You  will  not  marry  the  French  woman,  will  you?  I  saw 
her  laughing  with  Blaise  in  the  buttery." 

' '  I  belong  to  a  church  that  is  older  and  better  than  the 
English  church,"  Mr.  Holt  said  (making  a  sign  whereof  Es- 
mond did  not  then  understand  the  meaning,  across  his  breast 
and  forehead)  ;  "  in  our  church  the  clergy  do  not  marry.  You 
will  understand  these  things  better  soon." 

"  Was  not  Saint  Peter  the  head  of  your  church?  —  Dr.  Rab- 
bits of  Ealing  told  us  so." 

The  Father  said,  "  Yes,  he  was." 

"  But  Saint  Peter  was  married,  for  we  heard  only  last  Sun- 
day that  his  wife's  mother  lay  sick  of  a  fever."  On  which  the 
Father  again  laughed,  and  said  he  would  understand  this  too 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  23 

better  soon,  and  talked  of  other  things,  and  took  away  Harry 
Esmond,  and  showed  him  the  great  old  house  which  he  had 
come  to  inhabit. 

It  stood  on  a  rising  green  hill,  with  woods  behind  it,  in 
which  were  rooks'  nests,  where  the  birds  at  morning  and  return- 
ing home  at  evening  made  a  great  cawing.  At  the  foot  of  the 
hill  was  a  river,  with  a  steep  ancient  bridge  crossing  it ;  and 
beyond  that  a  large  pleasant  green  flat,  where  the  village  of 
Castlewood  stood,  and  stands,  with  the  church  in  tlie  midst, 
the  parsonage  hard  b}'  it,  the  inn  with  the  blacksmith's  forge 
beside  it,  and  the  sign  of  the  "Three  Castles"  on  the  elm. 
The  London  road  stretched  away  towards  the  rising  sun,  and 
to  the  west  were  swelUng  hills  and  peaks,  behind  which  many 
a  time  Harry  Esmond  saw  the  same  sun  setting,  that  he  now 
looks  on  thousands  of  miles  away  across  the  great  ocean  —  in 
a  new  Castlewood,  by  another  stream,  that  bears,  like  the  new 
country  of  wandering  ^Eneas,  the  fond  names  of  the  land  of 
his  youth. 

The  Hall  of  Castlewood  was  built  with  two  courts,  whereof 
one  onl}',  the  fountain-court,  was  now  inhabited,  the  other  hav- 
ing beeu  battered  down  in  the  CromwelUan  wars.  In  the  foun- 
tain-court, still  in  good  repair,  was  the  great  hall,  near  to  the 
kitchen  and  butteries.  A  dozen  of  living-rooms  looking  to  the 
north,  and  communicating  with  the  little  chapel  that  faced  east- 
wards and  the  buildings  stretching  from  that  to  the  main  gate, 
and  with  the  hall  (which  looked  to  the  west)  into  the  court  now 
dismantled.  This  court  had  been  the  most  magnificent  of  the 
two,  until  the  Protector's  cannon  tore  down  one  side  of  it  be- 
fore the  place  was  taken  and  stormed.  The  besiegers  entered 
at  the  terrace  under  the  clock-tower,  slaying  every  man  of  the 
garrison,  and  at  their  head  my  lord's  brother,  Francis  Esmond. 

The  Restoration  did  not  bring  enough  money  to  the  Lord 
Castlewood  to  restore  this  ruined  part  of  his  house  ;  where  were 
the  morning  parlors,  above  them  the  long  music-galler}',  and 
before  which  stretched  the  garden-terrace,  where,  however,  the 
flowers  grew  again  which  the  boots  of  the  Roundheads  had 
trodden  in  their  assault,  and  which  was  restored  without  much 
cost,  and  only  a  little  care,  by  both  ladies  who  succeeded  the 
second  viscount  in  the  government  of  this  mansion.  Round 
the  terrace-garden  was  a  low  wall  with  a  wicket  leading  to  the 
wooded  height  beyond,  that  is  called  Cromwell's  Battery  to  this 
day. 

Young  Harry  Esmond  learned  the  domestic  part  of  his  duty, 
which  was  easy  enough,  from  the  groom  of  her  ladyship's  cham- 


24  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

ber :  serving  the  Countess,  as  the  custom  commonly  was  in  his 
boyhood,  as  page,  waiting  at  her  chair,  bringing  her  scented 
water  and  the  silver  basin  after  dinner  —  sitting  on  her  car- 
riage-step on  state  occasions,  or  on  public  days  introducing  her 
company  to  her.  This  was  chiefly  of  the  Catholic  gentr}-, 
of  whom  there  were  a  pretty  many  in  the  countr}^  and  neigh- 
boring city ;  and  who  rode  not  seldom  to  Castlewood  to  par- 
take of  the  hospitalities  there.  In  the  second  year  of  their 
residence,  the  company  seemed  especially  to  increase.  My 
lord  and  my  lady  were  seldom  without  visitors,  in  whose  society 
it  was  curious  to  contrast  the  difference  of  behavior  between 
Father  Holt,  the  director  of  the  family,  and  Doctor  Tusher,  the 
rector  of  the  parish  —  Mr.  Holt  moving  amongst  the  very  high- 
est as  quite  their  equal,  and  as  commanding  them  all ;  while 
poor  Doctor  Tusher,  whose  position  was  indeed  a  difficult  one, 
having  been  chaplain  once  to  the  Hall,  and  still  to  the  Protes- 
tant servants  there,  seemed  more  like  an  usher  than  an  equal, 
and  alwa3's  rose  to  go  away  after  the  first  course. 

Also  there  came  in  these  times  to  Father  Holt  many  private 
visitors,  whom,  after  a  little,  Henry  Esmond  had  little  difficulty 
in  recognizing  as  ecclesiastics  of  the  Father's  persuasion,  what- 
ever their  dresses  (and  they  adopted  all)  might  be.  These  were 
closeted  with  the  Father  constantly,  and  often  came  and  rode 
away  without  paying  their  devoirs  to  my  lord  and  lad}'  —  to  the 
(ady  and  lord  rather  —  his  lordship  being  little  more  than  a 
<iipher  in  the  house,  and  entirelj^  under  his  domineering  partner. 
A  little  fowling,  a  little  hunting,  a  great  deal  of  sleep,  and  a  long 
time  at  cards  and  table,  carried  through  one  da}'  after  another 
with  his  lordship.  When  meetings  took  place  in  this  second 
year,  which  often  would  happen  with  closed  doors,  the  page 
found  my  lord's  sheet  of  paper  scribbled  over  with  dogs  and 
horses,  and  'twas  said  he  had  much  ado  to  keep  himself  awake 
at  these  councils  :  the  Countess  ruling  over  them,  and  he  act- 
ing as  little  more  than  her  secretary. 

Father  Holt  began  speedil}'  to  be  so  much  occupied  with 
these  meetings  as  rather  to  neglect  the  education  of  the  little 
lad  who  so  gladly  put  himself  under  the  kind  priest's  orders. 
At  first  the}'  read  much  and  regularly,  both  in  Latin  and 
French ;  the  Father  not  neglecting  in  anything  to  impress  his 
faith  upon  his  pupil,  but  not  forcing  him  violently,  and  treat- 
ing him  with  a  delicacy  and  kindness  which  surprised  and  at- 
tached the  child,  always  more  easily  won  by  these  methods 
than  by  any  severe  exercise  of  authority.  And  his  delight  in 
their  walks  was  to  tell  Harry  of  the  glories  of  his  order,  of  its 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  25 

mart3TS  and  heroes,  of  its  Brethren  converting  the  heathen 
by  mjTiads,  traversing  the  desert,  facing  the  stake,  ruUng  the 
courts  and  councils,  or  braving  the  tortures  of  kings ;  so  that 
Harry  Esmond  thought  that  to  belong  to  the  Jesuits  was  the 
greatest  prize  of  life  and  bravest  end  of  ambition  ;  the  greatest 
career  here,  and  in  heaven  the  surest  reward ;  and  began  to 
long  for  the  da}',  not  onl}'  when  he  should  enter  into  the  one 
church  and  receive  his  lirst  communion,  but  when  he  might  join 
that  wonderful  brotherhood,  which  w^as  present  throughout  all 
the  world,  and  which  numbered  the  wisest,  the  bravest,  the 
highest  born,  the  most  eloquent  of  men  among  its  members. 
Father  Holt  bade  him  keep  his  views  secret,  and  to  hide  them 
as  a  great  treasure  which  would  escape  him  if  it  was  revealed ; 
and,  proud  of  this  confidence  and  secret  vested  in  him,  the  lad 
became  fondly  attached  to  the  master  who  initiated  him  into  a 
mystery  so  wonderful  and  awful.  And  when  little  Tom  Tusher, 
his  neighbor,  came  from  school  for  his  holiday,  and  said  how  he, 
too,  was  to  be  bred  up  for  an  Enghsh  priest,  and  would  get 
what  he  called  an  exhi!3ition  from  his  school,  and  then  a  college 
scholarship  and  fellowship,  and  then  a  good  living  —  it  tasked 
young  Harry  Esmond's  powers  of  reticence  not  to  say  to  his 
young  companion,  "  Church  !  priesthood  !  fat  living  !  My  dear 
Tommy,  do  you  call  yours  a  church  and  a  priesthood  ?  What 
is  a  fat  living  compared  to  converting  a  hundred  thousand 
heathens  by  a  single  sermon?  What  is  a  scholarship  at  Trin- 
it}^  by  the  side  of  a  crown  of  martyrdom,  with  angels  awaiting 
3'ou  as  your  head  is  taken  off?  Could  your  master  at  school 
sail  over  the  Thames  on  his  gown?  Have  you  statues  in  3'our 
church  that  can  bleed,  speak,  w^alk,  and  cry?  My  good 
Tommy,  in  dear  Father  Holt's  church  these  things  take  place 
every  day.  You  know  Saint  Philip  of  the  Willows  appeared  to 
Lord  Castlewood,  and  caused  him  to  turn  to  the  one  true  church. 
No  saints  ever  come  to  you."  And  Harry  Esmond,  because 
of  his  promise  to  Father  Holt,  hiding  awa}^  these  treasures 
of  faith  from  T.  Tusher,  delivered  himself  of  them  nevertheless 
simpl}^  to  Father  Holt ;  who  stroked  his  head,  smiled  at  him 
with  his  inscrutable  look,  and  told  him  that  he  did  w^ell  to 
meditate  on  these  great  things,  and  not  to  talk  of  them  except 
under  direction. 


26  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 


CHAPTER  ly. 

1   AM   PLACED    UNDER   A    POPISH    PRIEST   AND   BRED  TO   THAT 
RELIGION.  —  VISCOUNTESS    CASTLEWOOD. 

Had  time  enough  been  given,  and  his  childish  incHnations 
been  properly  nurtured,  Harry  Esmond  had  been  a  Jesuit  priest 
ere  he  was  a  dozen  years  older,  and  might  have  finished  his 
days  a  martyr  in  China  or  a  victim  on  Tower  Hill:  for,  in  the 
few  months  they  spent  together  at  Castlewood,  Mr.  Holt  ob- 
tained an  entire  mastery  over  the  boy's  intellect  and  affections ; 
and  had  brought  him  to  think,  as  indeed  Father  Holt  thought 
with  all  his  heart  too,  that  no  life  was  so  noble,  no  death  so 
desirable,  as  that  which  many  brethren  of  his  famous  order 
were  read3'  to  undergo.  B}^  love,  b}'  a  brightness  of  wit  and 
good-humor  that  charmed  all,  by  an  authority  which  he  knew 
how  to  assume,  by  a  mystery  and  silence  about  him  which  in- 
creased the  child's  reverence  for  him,  he  won  Harry's  absolute, 
fealty,  and  would  have  kept  it,  doubtless,  if  schemes  greater 
and  more  important  than  a  poor  little  boy's  admission  into 
orders  had  not  called  him  awa}^ 

After  being  at  home  for  a  few  months  in  tranquillity  (if  theirs 
might  be  called  tranquil  lit}",  which  was,  in  truth,  a  constant 
bickering),  m}'  lord  and  lad}^  left  the  country  for  London,  tak- 
ing their  director  with  them :  and  his  little  pupil  scarce  ever 
shed  more  bitter  tears  in  his  life  than  he  did  for  nights  after 
the  first  parting  with  his  dear  friend,  as  he  la}"  in  the  lonely 
chamber  next  to  that  which  the  Father  used  to  occupy.  He 
and  a  few  domestics  were  left  as  the  only  tenants  of  the  great 
house :  and,  though  Harry  sedulously  did  all  the  tasks  which 
the  Father  set  him,  he  had  many  hours  unoccupied,  and  read 
in  the  library,  and  bewildered  his  little  brains  with  the  great 
books  he  found  there. 

After  a  while,  the  little  lad  grew  accustomed  to  the  loneliness 
of  the  place  ;  and  in  after  days  remembered  this  part  of  his  life 
as  a  period  not  unhappy.  When  the  family  was  at  London  the 
whole  of  the  establishment  travelled  thither  with  the  exception 
of  the  porter  —  who  was,  moreover,  brewer,  gardener,  and  wood- 
man—  and  his  wife  and  children.  These  had  their  lodging  in 
»fie  gate-house  hard  by,  with  a  door  into  the  court ;  and  a  win- 
tsow  looking  out  on  the  green  was  the  Chaplain's  room ;  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  27 

next  to  this  a  small  chamber  where  Father  Holt  had  his  books, 
and  Harry  Esmond  his  sleeping  closet.  The  side  of  the  house 
facing  the  east  had  escaped  the  guns  of  the  CromvvelUans,  whose 
battery  was  on  the  height  facing  the  western  court ;  so  that  this 
eastern  end  bore  few  marks  of  demolition,  save  in  the  chapel, 
where  the  painted  windows  surviving  Edward  the  Sixth  had 
been  broke  by  the  Commonwealthmen.  In  Father  Holt's  time 
little  Harr}^  Esmond  acted  as  his  familiar  and  faithful  little 
servitor ;  beating  his  clothes,  folding  his  vestments,  fetching 
his  water  from  the  well  long  before  daylight,  ready  to  run  any- 
where for  the  service  of  his  beloved  priest.  When  the  Father 
was  away,  he  locked  his  private  chamber ;  but  the  room  where 
the  books  were  was  left  to  little  Harry,  who,  but  for  the  society 
of  this  gentleman,  was  little  less  solitary  wben  Lord  Castlewood 
was  at  home. 

The  French  wit  saith  that  a  hero  is  none  to  his  valet-de- 
chambre,  and  it  required  less  quick  e3'es  than  my  lady's  little 
page  was  naturally  endowed  with,  to  see  that  she  had  many 
qualities  by  no  means  heroic,  however  much  Mrs.  Tusher  might 
flatter  and  coax  her.  When  Father  Holt  was  not  b}',  who  ex- 
ercised an  entire  authority  over  the  pair,  my  lord  and  my  lady 
(quarrelled  and  abused  each  other  so  as  to  make  the  servants 
laugh,  and  to  frighten  the  little  page  on  dutv.  The  poor  boy 
trembled  before  his  mistress,  who  called  him  by  a  hundred  ugly 
names,  who  made  nothing  of  boxing  his  ears,  and  tilting  the 
silver  basin  in  his  face  which  it  was  his  business  to  present  to 
her  after  dinner.  She  hath  repaired,  by  subsequent  kindness 
to  him,  these  severities,  which  it  must  be  owned  made  his  child- 
hood very  unhappy.  She  was  but  unhappy  herself  at  this  time, 
poor  soul !  and  I  suppose  made  her  dependants  lead  her  own 
sad  life.  I  think  my  lord  was  as  much  afraid  of  her  as  her 
page  was,  and  the  only  person  of  the  household  who  mastered 
her  was  Mr.  Holt.  Harry  was  oyAj  too  glad  when  the  Father 
dined  at  table,  and  to  slink  away  and  prattle  with  him  after- 
wards, or  read  with  him,  or  walk  with  him.  Luckily  my  Lady 
Viscountess  did  not  rise  till  noon.  Heaven  help  the  poor  wait- 
ing-woman who  had  charge  of  her  toilet !  I  have  often  seen 
the  poor  wretch  come  out  with  red  eyes  from  the  closet  where 
those  long  and  mysterious  rites  of  her  ladyship's  dress  were 
performed,  and  the  backgammon-box  locked  up  with  a  rap  on 
Mrs.  Tusher's  fingers  when  she  played  ill,  or  the  game  was 
going  the  wrong  way. 

Blessed  be  the  king  who  introduced  cards,  and  the  kind 
inventors  of  piquet  and  cribbage,  for  they  employed  six  hours 


28  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOJ^TD. 

at  least  of  her  ladyship's  day,  during  which  her  family  was 
pretty  eas3\  Without  this  occupation  my  lad}^  frequently- 
declared  she  should  die.  Her  dependants  one  after  another 
relieved  guard  —  'twas  rather  a  dangerous  post  to  play  with  her 
ladyship  —  and  took  the  cards  turn  about.  Mr.  Holt  would 
sit  with  her  at  piquet  during  hours  together,  at  which  time  she 
behaved  herself  properly  ;  and  as  for  Dr.  Tusher,  I  believe  he 
would  have  left  a  parishioner's  dying  bed,  if  summoned  to  play 
a  rubber  with  his  patroness  at  Castlewood.  Sometimes,  when 
they  were  pretty  comfortable  together,  ni}'  lord  took  a  hand. 
Besides  these  my  lady  had  her  faithful  poor  Tusher,  and  one, 
two,  three  gentlewomen  whom  Harry  Esmond  could  recollect 
in  his  time.  They  could  not  bear  that  genteel  service  ver}'  long  ; 
one  after  another  tried  and  failed  at  it.  These  and  the  house- 
keeper, and  little  Harry  Esmond,  had  a  table  of  their  own. 
Poor  ladies  !  their  life  was  far  harder  than  the  page's.  He  was 
sound  asleep,  tucked  up  in  his  little  bed,  whilst  they  were  sit- 
ting by  her  ladyship  reading  her  to  sleep,  with  the  "News 
Letter"  or  the  "  Grand  Cyrus."  My  lady  used  to  have  boxes 
of  new  plays  from  London,  and  Harry  was  forbidden,  under  the 
pain  of  a  whipping,  to  look  into  them.  I  am  afraid  he  deserved 
the  penalty  pretty  often,  and  got  it  sometimes.  Father  Holt 
applied  it  twice  or  thrice,  when  he  caught  the  young  scapegrace 
with  a  delightful  wicked  comedy  of  Mr.  Shadwell's  or  Mr. 
W^'cherley's  under  his  pillow. 

These,  when  he  took  any,  were  my  lord's  favorite  reading. 
But  he  was  averse  to  much  stud}',  and,  as  his  little  page  fancied, 
to  much  occupation  of  an}"  sort. 

It  always  seemed  to  young  Harry  Esmond  that  m}'  lord 
treated  him  with  more  kindness  when  his  lady  was  not  present, 
and  Lord  Castlewood  would  take  the  lad  sometimes  on  his  little 
journeys  a-hunting  or  a-birding ;  he  loved  to  play  at  cards  and 
tric-trac  with  him,  which  games  the  boy  learned  to  pleasure  his 
lord :  and  was  growing  to  like  him  better  dailj',  showing  a  spe- 
cial pleasure  if  Father  Holt  gave  a  good  report  of  him,  patting 
him  on  the  head,  and  promising  that  he  would  provide  for  the 
boy.  However,  in  my  lady's  presence,  my  lord  showed  no  such 
marks  of  kindness,  and  affected  to  treat  the  lad  roughly,  and 
rebuked  him  sharply  for  little  faults,  for  which  he  in  a  manner 
asked  pardon  of  young  Esmond  when  they  were  private,  sa3'ing 
if  he  did  not  speak  roughly,  she  would,  and  his  tongue  was  not 
such  a  bad  one  as  his  lady's  —  a  point  whereof  the  boy,  3'oung 
as  he  was,  was  verj'  well  assured. 

Great  public  events  were  happening  all  this  while,  of  which 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  29 

the  simple  young  page  took  little  count.  But  one  daj^  riding 
into  the  neighboring  town  on  the  step  of  my  lady's  coach,  his 
lordship  and  she  and  Father  Holt  being  inside,  a  great  mob  of 
people  came  hooting  and  jeering  round  the  coach,  bawling  out 
''The  Bishops  for  ever!"  "Down  with  tlie  Pope!"  "No 
Popery  !  no  Popery  !  Jezebel,  Jezebel !  "  so  that  my  lord  began 
to  laugh,  m}^  lady's  e3'es  to  roll  with  anger,  for  she  was  as  bold 
as  a  lioness,  and  feared  nobody ;  whilst  Mr.  Holt,  as  Esmond 
saw  from  his  place  on  the  step,  sank  back  with  rather  an 
alarmed  face,  crying  out  to  her  ladj'ship,  "For  God's  sake, 
madam,  do  not  speak  or  look  out  of  window ;  sit  still."  But 
she  did  not  obey  this  prudent  injunction  of  the  Father ;  she 
thrust  her  head  out  of  the  coach  window,  and  screamed  out 
to  the  coachman,  "  Flog  your  way  through  them,  the  brutes, 
James,  and  use  your  whip  !  " 

The  mob  answered  with  a  roaring  jeer  of  laughter,  and  fresh 
cries  of  "  Jezebel !  Jezebel !  "  My  lord  only  laughed  the  more  : 
he  was  a  languid  gentleman :  rtothing  seemed  to  excite  him 
commonlj',  though  1  have  seen  him  cheer  and  halloo  tlie  hounds 
ver}'  briskly,  and  his  face  (which  was  generally  very  yellow  and 
calm)  grow  quite  red  and  cheerful  during  a  burst  over  the  Downs 
after  a  hare,  and  laugh,  and  swear,  and  huzzali  at  a  cockfight, 
of  which  sport  he  was  ver}^  fond.  And  now,  when  the  mob 
began  to  hoot  his  lady,  he  laughed  with  something  of  a  mis- 
chievous look,  as  though  he  expected  sport,  and  thought  that 
she  and  they  were  a  match. 

James  the  coachman  was  more  afraid  of  his  mistress  than 
the  mob,  probably,  for  he  whipped  on  his  horses  as  he  was 
bidden,  and  the  post-bo}'  that  rode  with  the  first  pair  (nw  lady 
always  rode  with  her  coach-and-six,)  gave  a  cut  of  his  thong 
over  the  shoulders  of  one  fellow  who  put  his  hand  out  towards 
the  leading  horse's  rein. 

It  was  a  market-da}',  and  the  country-people  were  all  as- 
sembled with  their  baskets  of  poultry,  eggs,  and  such  things ; 
the  postilion  had  no  sooner  lashed  the  man  who  would  have 
taken  hold  of  his  horse,  but  a  great  cabbage  came  whirling  like 
a  bombshell  into  the  carriage,  at  which  my  lord  laughed  more, 
for  it  knocked  my  lady's  fan  out  of  her  hand,  and  plumped  into 
Father  Holt's  stomach.  Then  came  a  shower  of  carrots  and 
potatoes. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  be  still!"  saj's  Mr.  Holt;  "  we  are 
not  ten  paces  from  the  '  Bell '  archway,  w^here  they  can  shut 
the  gates  on  us,  and  keep  out  this  canaille. ^^ 

The  little  page  was  outside  the  coach  on  the  step,  and  a 


30  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

fellow  in  the  crowd  aimed  a  potato  at  him,  and  hit  him  in  the 
ej'e,  at  which  the  poor  little  wretch  set  up  a  shout ;  the  man 
laughed,  a  great  big  saddler's  apprentice  of  the  town.     "  Ah  ! 

you   d Uttle  3'elling  Popish  bastard,"  he  said,  and  stooped 

to  pick  up  another ;  the  crowd  had  gathered  quite  between  the 
horses  and  the  inn  door  by  this  time,  and  the  coach  was  brought 
to  a  dead  stand-still.  My  lord  jumped  as  briskly  as  a  bo}'  out 
of  the  door  on  his  side  of  the  coach,  squeezing  little  Harry 
behind  it ;  had  hold  of  the  potato-thrower's  collar  in  an  instant, 
and  the  next  moment  the  brute's  heels  were  in  the  air,  and  he 
fell  on  the  stones  with  a  thump. 

"  You  hulking  coward  !  "  says  he  ;  "  you  pack  of  screaming 
blackguards  !  how  dare  you  attack  children,  and  insult  women? 
Fling  another  shot  at  that  carriage,  yon  sneaking  pigskin  cob- 
bler, and  by  the  Lord  I'll  send  my  rapier  through  you !  " 

Some  of  the  mob  cried,  ''  Huzzah,  my  lord  !  "  for  they  knew 
him,  and  the  saddler's  man  was  a  known  bruiser,  near  twice  as 
big  as  my  lord  Viscount.  * 

'^  Make  way  there,"*  sa3^s  he  (he  spoke  in  a  high  shrill  voice, 
but  with  a  great  air  of  authority).  "  Make  way,  and  let  her 
ladyship's  carriage  i:)ass."  The  men  that  were  between  the 
coach  and  the  gate  of  the  "  Bell"  actually  did  make  wa^^,  and 
the  horses  went  in,  mj'  lord  walking  after  them  with  his  hat  on 
his  head. 

As  he  was  going  in  at  the  gate,  through  which  the  coach 
had  just  rolled,  another  cry  begins,  of  "No  Popery  —  no 
Papists !  "     My  lord  turns  round  and  faces  them  once  more. 

"  God  save  the  King !  "  says  he  at  the  highest  pitch  of  his 
voice.  "Who  dares  abuse  the  King's  religion?  You,  you 
d — d  psalm-singing  cobbler,  as  sure  as  I'm  a  magistrate  of  this 
count}^  I'll  commit  you !  "  The  fellow  shrank  back,  and  my 
lord  retreated  with  all  the  honors  of  the  day.  But  when  the 
little  flurry  caused  by  the  scene  was  over,  and  the  flush  passed 
off  his  face,  he  relapsed  into  his  usual  languor,  trifled  with  his 
little  dog,  and  yawned  when  mj'  lady  spoke  to  him. 

This  mob  was  one  of  many  thousands  that  were  going  about 
the  country  at  that  time,  huzzahing  for  the  acquittal  of  the  seven 
bishops  who  had  been  tried  just  then,  and  about  whom  little 
Harry  Esmond  at  that  time  knew  scarce  anything.  It  was 
Assizes  at  Hexton,  and  there  was  a  great  meeting  of  the  gentry 
at  the  "  Bell ;  "  and  my  lord's  people  had  their  new  liveries  on, 
and  Harry  a  little  suit  of  blue  and  silver,  which  he  wore  upon 
occasions  of  state  ;  and  the  gentlefolks  came  round  and  talked 
to  my  lord :  and  a  judge  in  a  red  gown,  who  seemed  a  very 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  31 

great  personage,  especially  complimented  him  and  my  lady, 
who  was  might}'  grand.  Harr}'  remembers  her  train  borne  up 
by  her  gentlewoman.  There  was  ah  assembly'  and  ball  at  the 
great  room  at  the  ''Bell,"  and  other  young  gentlemen  of  the 
county  famiUes  looked  on  as  he  did.  One  of  them  jeered  him 
for  his  black  eye,  which  was  swelled  by  the  potato,  and  another 
called  him  a  bastard,  on  which  he  and  Harrj'  fell  to  fisticuffs. 
My  lord's  cousin.  Colonel  Esmond  of  Walcote,  was  there,  and 
separated  the  two  lads  —  a  great  tall  gentleman,  with  a  hand- 
some good-natured  face.  The  bo}'  did  not  know  how  neai-l}'  in 
after-life  he  should  be  allied  to  Colonel  Esmond,  and  how  much 
kindness  he  should  have  to  owe  him. 

There  was  little  love  between  the  two  families.  M}^  lady 
used  not  to  spare  Colonel  Esmond  in  talking  of  him,  for  reasons 
which  have  been  hinted  already  ;  but  about  which,  at  his  tender 
age,  Henry  Esmond  could  be  expected  lo  know  nothing. 

Very  soon  afterwards,  my  lord  and  lad}'  went  to  London 
with  Mr.  Holt,  leaving,  however-,  the  page  behind  them.  The 
little  man  had  the  great  house  of  Castlewood  to  himself;  or 
between  him  and  the  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Worksop,  an  old  lady 
who  was  a  kinswoman  of  the  family  in  some  distant  waj',  and 
a  Protestant,  but  a  staunch  Tory  and  king's-man,  as  all  the 
Esmonds  were.  He  used  to  go  to  school  to  Dr.  Tusher  when 
he  was  at  home,  though  the  Doctor  was  much  occupied  too. 
There  was  a  great  stir  and  commotion  everywhere,  even  in  the 
little  quiet  village  of  Castlewood,  whither  a  party  of  people 
came  from  the  town,  who  would  have  broken  Castlewood  Chapel 
windows,  but  the  village  people  turned  out,  and  even  old  Sieve- 
right,  the  republican  blacksmith,  along  with  them  :  for  my  lad}', 
though  she  was  a  Papist,  and  had  man}' odd  ways,  was  kind  to 
the  tenantry,  and  there  was  always  a  plenty  of  beef,  and  blan- 
kets, and  medicine  for  the  poor  at  Castlewood  Hall. 

A  kingdom  was  changing  hands  whilst  my  lord  and  lady 
were  away.  King  James  was  flying,  the  Dutchmen  were  com- 
ing ;  awful  stories  about  them  and  the  Prince  of  Orange  used 
old  Mrs.  Worksop  to  tell  to  the  idle  little  page. 

He  liked  the  solitude  of  the  great  house  very  well ;  he  had 
all  the  play-books  to  read,  and  no  Father  Holt  to  whip  him, 
and  a  hundred  childish  pursuits  and  pastimes,  without  doors 
and  within,  which  made  this  time  very  pleasant. 


32  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MY    SUPERIORS    ARE    ENGAGED     IN     PLOTS     FOR    THE    RESTORATION 
OF   KING   JAMES    II. 

Not  having  been  able  to  sleep,  for  thinking  of  some  lines  for 
eels  which  he  had  placed  the  night  before,  the  lad  was  lying  in 
his  little  bed,  waiting  for  the  hour  when  the  gate  would  be  open, 
and  he  and  his  comrade,  John  Lockwood,  the  porter's  son, 
might  go  to  the  pond  and  see  what  fortune  had  brought  them. 
At  daybreak  John  was  to  awaken  him,  but  his  own  eagerness 
for  the  sport  had  served  as  a  reveillez  long  since  —  so  long,  that 
it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  day  never  would  come. 

It  might  have  been  four  o'clock  when  he  heard  the  door  of 
the  opposite  chamber,  the  Chaplain's  room,  open,  and  the  voice 
of  a  man  coughing  in  the  passage.  Harry  jumped  up,  thinking 
for  certain  it  was  a  robber,  or  hoping  perhaps  for  a  ghost,  and, 
flinging  open  his  own  door,  saw  before  him  the  Chaplain's  door 
open,  and  a  light  inside,  and  a  figure  standing  in  the  doorway, 
in  the  midst  of  a  great  smoke  which  issued  from  the  room. 

"Who's  there?"  cried  out  the  boy,  who  was  of  a  good 
spirit. 

"  Silentiiim  ! "  whispered  the  other  ;  "  'tis  I,  my  boy  !  "  and, 
holding  his  hand  out,  Harry  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing 
his  master  and  friend.  Father  Holt.  A  curtain  was  over  the 
window  of  the  Chaplain's  room  that  looked  to  the  court,  and 
Harry  saw  that  the  smoke  came  from  a  great  flame  of  papers 
which  were  burning  in  a  brazier  when  he  entered  the  Chaplain's 
room.  After  giving  a  hastj^  greeting  and  blessing  to  the  lad, 
who  was  charmed  to  see  his  tutor,  the  Father  continued  the 
burning  of  his  papers,  drawing  them  from  a  cupboard  over 
the  mantel-piece  wall,  which  Harrj'  had  never  seen  before. 

Father  Holt  laughed,  seeing  the  lad's  attention  fixed  at  once 
on  this  hole.  "  That  is  right,  Harry,"  he  said  ;  ''  faithful  little 
famuli,  see  all  and  say  nothing.     You  are  faithful,  I  know." 

"  I  know  I  would  go  to  the  stake  for  3'ou,"  said  Harry. 

"  I  don't  want  3'our  head,"  said  the  Father,  patting  it  kindly  ; 
"  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  hold  j'our  tongue.  Let  us  burn  these 
papers,  and  say  nothing  to  anybody.  Should  you  like  to  read 
them?" 

HaiTy  Esmond  blushed,  and  held  down  his  head;  he  had 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  33 

looked  as  the  fact  was,  and  without  thinking,  at  the  paper 
before  him  ;  and  though  he  had  seen  it,  could  not  understand 
a  word  of  it,  the  letters  being  quite  clear  enough,  but  quite 
without  meaning.  The}^  burned  the  papers,  beating  down  the 
ashes  in  a  brazier,  so  that  scarce  any  traces  of  them  remained. 

Hany  had  been  accustomed  to  see  Father  Holt  in  more 
dresses  than  one  ;  it  not  being  safe,  or  worth  the  danger,  for 
Popish  ecclesiastics  to  wear  their  proper  dress ;  and  he  was, 
in  consequence,  in  no  wise  astonished  that  the  priest  should 
now  appear  before  him  in  a  riding-dress,  with  large  buff  leather 
boots,  and  a  feather  to  his  hat,  plain,  but  such  as  gentlemen 
wore. 

"You  know  the  secret  of  the  cupboard,"  said  he,  laughing, 
"and  must  be  prepared  for  other  mysteries;"  and  he  opened 
—  but  not  a  secret  cupboard  this  time  —  only  a  wardrobe, 
which  he  usually  kept  locked,  and  from  which  he  now  took 
out  two  or  three  dresses  and  perruques  of  different  colors,  and 
a  couple  of  swords  of  a  pretty  make  (Father  Flolt  was  an  ex- 
pert practitioner  with  the  small-sword,  and  every  day,  whilst 
he  was  at  home,  he  and  his  pupil  practised  this  exercise,  in 
which  the  lad  became  a  very  great  proficient) ,  a  military  coat 
and  cloak,  and  a  farmer's  smock,  and  placed  them  in  the  large 
hole  over  the  mantel-piece  from  which  the  papers  had  been 
taken. 

"If  the}'  miss  the  cupboard,"  he  said,  "they  will  not  find 
these  ;  if  they  find  them,  the3''ll  tell  no  tales,  except  that  Father 
Holt  wore  more  suits  of  clothes  than  one.  All  Jesuits  do. 
You  know  what  deceivers  we  are,  Harry." 

Harr}'  was  alarmed  at  the  notion  that  his  friend  was  about 
to  leave  him;  but  "No,"  the  priest  said,  "I  may  very  likely 
come  back  with  mj'  lord  in  a  few  days.  We  are  to  be  tolerated  ; 
we  are  not  to  be  persecuted.  But  the}"  ma}'  take  a  fancy  to 
pay  a  visit  at  Castlewood  ere  our  return  ;  and,  as  gentlemen 
of  my  cloth  are  suspected,  they  might  choose  to  examine  my 
papers,  which  concern  nobody  —  at  least  not  them."  And  to 
this  day,  whether  the  papers  in  cipher  related  to  politics,  or  to 
the  affairs  of  that  mysterious  society  whereof  Father  Holt  was 
a  member,  his  pupil,  Harry  Esmond,  remains  in  entire  igno- 
rance. 

The  rest  of  his  goods,  his  small  wardrobe,  &c.  Holt  left 
untouched  on  his  shelves  and  in  his  cupboard,  taking  down  — 
with  a  laugh,  however  —  and  flinging  into  the  brazier,  where 
he  only  half  burned  them,  some  theological  treatises  which  he 
had  been  writing  against  the  English  divines.     "And  now," 

2 


34  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

said  he,  "  Henrj^,  my  son,  3'ou  ma}^  testif}',  with  a  safe  con 
science,  that  you  saw  me  burning  Latin  sermons  the  last  time 
I  was  here  before  I  went  away  to  London  ;  and  it  will  be  day- 
break directlj^,  and  I  must  be  away  before  Lockwood  is  stir- 
ring." 

"Will  not  Lockwood  let  you  out,  sir?"  Esmond  asked. 
Holt  laughed ;  he  was  never  more  ga}^  or  good-humored  than 
when  in  the  midst  of  action  or  danger. 

"Lockwood  knows  nothing  of  my  being  here,  mind  3'ou," 
he  said;  "nor  would  you,  you  little  wretch!  had  3'ou  slept 
better.  l"ou  must  forget  that  I  have  been  here  ;  and  now  fare- 
well. Close  the  door,  and  go  to  j^our  own  room,  and  don't 
come  out  till — -stay,  wh}^  should  3'ou  not  know  one  secret 
more?     I  know  joii  will  never  betray'  me." 

In  the  Chaplain's  room  were  two  windows ;  the  one  looking 
into  the  court  facing  westwards  to  the  fountain ;  the  other,  a 
small  casement  strongly  barred,  and  looking  on  to  the  green 
in  front  of  the  Hall.  This  window  was  too  high  to  reach  from 
the  ground  ;  but,  mounting  on  a  buffet  which  stood  beneath  it, 
Father  Holt  showed  me  how,  b}"  pressing  on  the  base  of  the 
window,  the  whole  framework  of  lead,  glass,  and  iron  stanch- 
ions descended  into  a  cavit\'  worked  below,  from  which  it  could 
be  drawn  and  restored  to  its  usual  place  from  without ;  a 
broken  pane  being  purposelj^  open  to  admit  the  hand  which 
was  to  work  upon  the  spring  of  the  machine. 

"When  I  am  gone,"  Father  Holt  said,  "  3^ou  may  push 
awa3'  the  buffet,  so  that  no  one  ma3^  fanc3^  that  an  exit  has  been 
made  that  wa3^ ;  lock  the  door ;  place  the  key  —  where  shall 
we  put  the  ke3'  ?  —  under  '  Chrysostom '  on  the  book-shelf ;  and 
if  any  ask  for  it,  say  I  keep  it  there,  and  told  3'ou  where  to 
find  it,  if  you  had  need  to  go  to  m3^  room.  The  descent  is  eas3'" 
down  the  wall  into  the  ditch ;  and  so,  once  more  farewell,  until 
I  see  thee  again,  m3'  dear  son."  And  with  this  the  intrepid 
Father  mounted  the  buffet  with  great  agilit3'  and  briskness, 
stepped  across  the  window,  lifting  up  the  bars  and  framework 
again  from  the  other  side,  and  onl3^  leaving  room  for  Harr3' 
Esmond  to  stand  on  tiptoe  and  kiss  his  hand  before  the  case- 
ment closed,  the  bars  fixing  as  firml3'  as  ever,  seemingly,  in 
the  stone  arch  overhead.  When  Father  Holt  next  arrived  at 
Castle  wood,  it  was  b3^  the  public  gate  on  horseback ;  and  he 
never  so  much  as  alluded  to  the  existence  of  the  private  issue 
to  Harr3^  except  when  he  had  need  of  a  private  messenger 
from  within,  for  which  end,  no  doubt,  he  had  instructed  his 
young  pupil  in  the  means  of  quitting  the  Hall. 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  35 

Esmond,  3'oiing  as  he  was,  would  have  died  sooner  than 
betra}'  his  friend  and  master,  as  Mr.  Holt  well  knew ;  for  he 
had  tried  the  bo}'  more  than  once,  putting  temptations  in  his 
wa}',  to  see  whether  he  would  ^deld  to  them  and  confess  after- 
wards, or  whether  he  would  resist  them,  as  he  did  sometimes, 
or  whether  he  would  lie,  which  he  never  did.  Holt  instructing 
the  boy  on  this  point,  however,  that  if  to  keep  silence  is  not 
to  lie,  as  it  certainh'  is  not,  3'et  silence  is,  after  all,  equivalent 
to  a  negation  —  and  therefore  a  downright  No,  in  the  interest 
of  justice  or  j'our  friend,  and  in  repl}'  to  a  question  that  may 
be  prejudicial  to  either,  is  not  criminal,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
praiseworthy  ;  and  as  lawful  a  wa}^  as  the  other  of  eluding  a 
wrongful  demand.  For  instance  (saj^s  he),  suppose  a  good 
citizen,  who  had  seen  his  Majesty  take  refuge  there,  had  been 
asked,  "Is  King  Charles  up  that  oak-tree?"  his  dut\-  would 
have  been  not  to  say.  Yes  —  so  that  the  Cromwellians  should 
seize  the  king  and  murder  him  like  his  father  —  but  No ;  his 
Majesty  being  private  in  the  tree,  and  therefore  not  to  be  seen 
there  by  loyal  eyes :  all  which  instruction,  in  religion  and 
morals,  as  well  as  in  the  rudiments  of  the  tongues  and  sciences, 
the  bo}'  took  eagerl}'  and  with  gratitude  from  his  tutor.  When, 
then.  Holt  was  gone,  and  told  Hany  not  to  see  him,  it  was  as 
if  he  had  never  been.  And  he  had  this  answer  pat  when  he 
came  to  be  questioned  a  few  da3-s  after. 

The  Prince  of  Orange  was  then  at  Salisbury,  as  3'oung  Es- 
mond learned  from  seeing  Doctor  Tusher  in  his  best  cassock 
(though  the  roads  were  mudd}',  and  he  never  was  known  to 
wear  his  silk,  only  his  stuff  one,  a-horseback),  with  a  great 
orange  cockade  in  his  broad-leafed  hat,  and  Nahum,  his  clerk, 
ornamented  with  a  like  decoration.  The  Doctor  was  walking 
up  and  down  in  front  of  his  parsonage,  when  little  Esmond  saw 
him,  and  heard  him  sa^'  he  was  going  to  pay  his  duty  to  his 
Highness  the  Prince,  as  he  mounted  his  pad  and  rode  away 
with  Nahum  behind.  The  village  people  had  orange  cockades 
too,  and  his  friend  the  blacksmith's  laughing  daughter  pinned 
one  into  Harry's  old  hat,  which  he  tore  out  indignantl}'  when 
the}"  bade  him  to  cr}^  "  God  save  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  the 
Protestant  religion ! "  but  the  people  onl}'  laughed,  for  the}' 
liked  the  boj^  in  the  village,  where  his  solitarj^  condition  moved 
the  general  pit}',  and  where  he  found  friendly  welcomes  and 
faces  in  many  houses.  Father  Holt  had  many  friends  there 
too,  for  he  not  only  would  light  the  blacksmith  at  theology, 
never  losing  his  temper,  but  laughing  the  whole  time  in  his 
pleasant  way ;    but  he  cured  him  of  an  ague  with  quinquina, 


36  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

and  was  always  ready  with  a  kind  word  for  any  man  that  asked 
it,  so  that  they  said  in  the  village  'twas  a  pity  the  two  were 
Papists. 

The  Director  and  the  Vicar  of  Castlewood  agreed  very  well ; 
indeed,  the  former  was  a  perfectly-bred  gentleman,  and  it  was 
the  latter's  business  to  agree  with  everybody.  Doctor  Tusher 
and  the  ladj^'s-maid,  his  spouse,  had  a  bo}'  who  was  about  the 
age  of  little  Esmond  ;  and  there  was  such  a  friendship  between 
the  lads,  as  propinquity  and  tolerable  kindness  and  good-humor 
on  either  side  would  be  prett}'  sure  to  occasion.  Tom  Tusher 
was  sent  off  early,  however,  to  a  school  in  London,  whither  his 
father  took  him  and  a  volume  of  sermons,  in  the  first  year  of 
the  reign  of  King  James  ;  and  Tom  returned  but  once,  a  3'ear 
afterwards,  to  Castlewood  for  many  years  of  his  scholastic  and 
collegiate  life.  Thus  there  was  less  danger  to  Tom  of  a  per- 
version of  his  faith  bj^  the  Director,  who  scarce  ever  saw  him, 
than  there  was  to  Harry,  who  constantly  was  in  the  Vicar's 
company  ;  but  as  long  as  Harry's  religion  was  his  Majest3''s, 
and  my  lord's,  and  my  lady's,  the  Doctor  said  gravel}',  it  should 
not  be  for  him  to  disturb  or  disquiet  him :  it  was  far  from  him 
to  say  that  his  Majesty's  Church  was  not  a  branch  of  the  Cath- 
olic Church ;  upon  which  Father  Holt  used,  according  to  his 
custom,  to  laugh,  and  say  that  the  Holy  Church  throughout  all 
the  world,  and  the  noble  Army  of  Martyrs,  were  very  much 
obliged  to  the  Doctor. 

It  was  while  Dr.  Tusher  was  away  at  Salisbury  that  there 
came  a  troop  of  dragoons  with  orange  scarfs,  and  quartered  in 
Castlewood,  and  some  of  them  came  up  to  the  Hall,  where 
they  took  possession,  robbing  nothing  however  bej'ond  the 
hen-house  and  the  beer-cellar:  and  only  insisting  upon  going 
through  the  house  and  looking  for  papers.  The  first  room 
they  asked  to  look  at  was  Father  Holt's  room,  of  which  Harry 
Esmond  brought  the  key,  and  they  opened  the  drawers  and  the 
cupboards,  and  tossed  over  the  papers  and  clothes  —  but  found 
nothing  except  his  books  and  clothes,  and  the  vestments  in  a 
box  by  themselves,  with  which  the  dragoons  made  merrj',  to 
Harry  Esmond's  horror.  And  to  the  questions  which  the 
gentleman  put  to  Harry,  he  replied  that  Father  Holt  was  a 
ver}"  kind  man  to  him,  and  a  very  learned  man,  and  Harry 
supposed  would  tell  him  none  of  his  secrets  if  he  had  any. 
He  was  about  eleven  years  old  at  this  time,  and  looked  as 
innocent  as  bo3'S  of  his  age. 

The  family  were  away  more  than  six  months,  and  when 
they  returned  they  were  in  the  deepest  state  of  dejection,  for 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND.  37 

King  James  had  been  banished,  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  on 
the  throne,  and  the  direst  persecutions  of  those  of  the  Cath- 
ohc  faith  were  apprehended  by  my  lad\',  who  said  she  did  not 
believe  that  there  was  a  word  of  trutli  in  the  promises  of  tol- 
eration that  Dutch  monster  made,  or  in  a  single  word  the  per- 
jured wretch  said.  My  lord  and  lad}'  were  in  a  manner  prisoners 
in  their  own  house ;  so  her  ladyship  gave  the  little  page  to 
know,  who  was  by  this  time  growing  of  an  age  to  understand 
what  was  passing  about  him,  and  something  of  the  characters 
of  the  people  he  lived  with. 

"  We  are  prisoners,"  sa^'s  she  ;  "  in  everjlhing  but  chains, 
we  are  prisoners.  Let  them  come,  let  them  consign  me  to 
dungeons,  or  strike  off  m}'  head  from  this  poor  little  throat" 
(and  she  clasped  it  in  her  long  fingers).  ''  The  blood  of  the 
Esmonds  will  always  flow  freely  for  their  kings.  We  are  not 
like  the  Churchills  —  the  Judases,  who  kiss  their  master  and 
betra}'  him.  We  know  how  to  suffer,  how  even  to  forgive  in 
the  royal  cause  "  (no  doubt  it  was  to  that  fatal  business  of 
losing  the  place  of  Groom  of  the  Posset  to  which  her  lady- 
ship alluded,  as  she  did  half  a  dozen  times  in  the  day).  "Let 
the  tj'rant  of  Orange  bring  his  rack  and  his  odious  Dutch 
tortures  —  the  beast  I  the  wretch !  I  spit  upon  him  and 
defy  him.  Cheerfull}'  will  I  lay  this  head  upon  the  block ; 
cheerfull}'  will  I  accompany  my  lord  to  the  scaffold :  we  will 
cry  '  God  save  King  James  I '  with  our  dying  breath,  and 
smile  in  the  face  of  the  executioner."  And  she  told  her 
page,  a  hundred  times  at  least,  of  the  particulars  of  the  last 
interview  which  she  had  with  his  Majesty. 

"  I  flung  myself  before  m}^  liege's  feet,"  she  said,  "  at  Salis- 
bur}'.  I  devoted  m3'self — my  husband  —  my  house,  to  his 
cause.  Perhaps  he  remembered  old  times,  when  Isabella  Es- 
mond was  3'oung  and  fair ;  perhaps  he  recalled  the  day  when 
'twas  not  1  that  knelt  —  at  least  he  spoke  to  me  with  a  voice 
that  reminded  me  of  days  gone  by.  '  Egad  ! '  said  his  Majesty, 
'  you  should  go  to  the  Prince  of  Orange,  if  you  want  anything.' 
'  No,  sire,'  I  replied,  '  I  would  not  kneel  to  a  Usurper ;  the  Es- 
mond that  would  have  served  3'our  Majesty  will  nevei'  be  groom 
to  a  traitor's  posset.'  The  royal  exile  smiled,  even  in  the  midst 
of  his  misfortune  ;  he  deigned  to  raise  me  with  words  of  conso- 
lation. The  Viscount,  mj^  husband,  himself,  could  not  be 
angry  at  the  august  salute  with  which  he  honored  me  !  " 

The  public  misfortune  had  the  effect  of  making  my  lord  and 
his  lady  better  friends  than  the}^  ever  had  been  since  their 
courtship.       M}-   lord  Viscount  had   shown  both  loyalty  and 


38  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

spirit,  when  these  were  rare  qualities  in  the  dispirited  part}' 
about  the  King ;  and  the  praise  he  got  elevated  him  not  a 
little  in  his  wife's  good  opinion,  and  perhaps  in  his  own.  He 
wakened  up  from  the  listless  and  supine  life  which  he  had  been 
leading;  was  always  riding  to  and  fro  in  consultation  with 
this  friend  or  that  of  the  King's ;  the  page  of  course  knowing 
httle  of  his  doings,  but  remarking  only  his  greater  cheerfulness 
and  altered  demeanor. 

Father  Holt  came  to  the  Hall  constantly,  but  officiated  no 
longer  openly  as  chaplain  ;  he  was  always  fetching  and  cai-ry- 
ing :  strangers,  military  and  ecclesiastic  (Harry  knew  the  lat- 
ter, though  they  came  in  all  sorts  of  disguises),  were  contin- 
ually arriving  and  departing.  My  lord  made  long  absences 
and  sudden  reappearances,  using  sometimes  the  means  of 
exit  which  Father  Holt  had  employed,  though  how  often  the 
little  window  in  the  Chaplain's  room  let  in  or  let  out  my 
lord  and  his  friends,  Harry  could  not  tell.  He  stoutly  kept 
his  promise  to  the  Father  of  not  prying,  and  if  at  midnight 
from  his  little  room  he  heard  noises  of  persons  stirring  in  the 
next  chamber,  he  turned  round  to  the  wall,  and  hid  his  curi- 
osity under  his  pillow  until  it  fell  asleep.  Of  course  he  could 
not  help  remarking  that  the  priest's  journeys  were  constant, 
and  understanding  by  a  hundred  signs  that  some  active  though 
secret  business  employed  him  :  what  this  was  may  pretty  well 
be  guessed  b}-  what  soon  happened  to  my  lord. 

No  garrison  or  watch  was  put  into  Castlewood  when  my 
lord  came  back,  but  a  Guard  was  in  the  village  ;  and  one  or 
other  of  them  was  always  on  the  Green  keeping  a  look-out  on 
our  great  gate,  and  those  who  went  out  and  in.  Lock  wood 
said  that  at  night  especially  every  person  who  came  in  or  went 
out  was  watched  by  the  outlying  sentries.  '  Twas  lucky  that 
we  had  a  gate  which  their  Worships  knew  nothing  about.  My 
lord  and  P'ather  Holt  must  have  made  constant  journeys  at 
night :  once  or  twice  little  Harrj'  acted  as  their  messenger  and 
discreet  little  aide-de-camp.  He  remembers  he  was  bidden  to 
go  into  the  village  with  his  fishing-rod,  enter  certain  houses, 
ask  for  a  drink  of  water,  and  tell  the  good  man,  "  There  would 
be  a  horse-market  at  Newbury  next  Thursday,"  and  so  carry 
the  same  message  on  to  the  next  house  on  his  list. 

He  did  not  know  what  the  message  meant  at  the  time,  nor 
what  was  happening :  which  ma}"  as  well,  however,  for  clear- 
ness' sake,  be  explained  here.  The  Prince  of  Orange  being 
gone  to  Ireland,  where  the  King  was  ready  to  meet  him  with  a 
great  army,  it  was  determined  that  a  great  rising  of  his  Majes- 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  39 

ty's  part}^  should  take  place  in  this  country  ;  and  m}^  lord  was 
to  head  the  force  in  our  count}'.  Of  late  he  had  taken  a  greater 
lead  in  affairs  than  before,  having  the  indefatigable  Mr.  Holt  at 
his  elbow,  and  my  Lady  Viscountess  strongly  urging  him  on ; 
and  my  Lord  Sark  being  in  the  Tower  a  prisoner,  and  8ir  Wil- 
niot  Crawley,  of  Queen's  Crawley,  having  gone  over  to  the  Prince 
of  Orange's  side  —  my  lord  became  the  most  considerable  per- 
son in  our  part  of  the  county  for  the  affairs  of  the  King. 

It  was  arranged  that  the  regiment  of  Scots  Gra3S  and  Dra- 
goons, then  quartered  at  Newbury,  should  declare  for  the  King 
on  a  certain  day,  when  likewise  the  gentry  affected  to  his  Maj- 
esty's cause  were  to  come  in  with  their  tenants  and  adherents 
to  Newbury,  march  upon  the  Dutch  troops  at  Reading  under 
Ginckel ;  and,  these  overthrown,  and  their  indomitable  little 
master  awa}'  in  Ireland,  'twas  thought  that  our  side  might 
move  on  London  itself,  and  a  confident  victory  was  predicted 
for  the  King. 

As  these  great  matters  were  in  agitation,  m}'  lord  lost  his 
listless  manner  and  seemed  to  gain  health ;  mj'  lady  did  not 
scold  him,  Mr.  Holt  came  to  and  fro,  bus}'  always  ;  and  little 
Harry  longed  to  have  been  a  few  inches  taller,  that  he  might 
draw  a  sword  in  this  good  cause. 

One  day,  it  must  have  been  about  the  month  of  Jul}',  1690, 
my  lord,  in  a  great  horseman's  coat,  under  which  Harry  could 
see  the  shining  of  a  steel  breastplate  he  had  on,  called  little 
Harry  to  him,  put  the  hair  off  the  child's  forehead,  and  kissed 
him,  and  bade  God  bless  ^im  in  such  an  affectionate  way  as  he 
never  had  used  before.  Father  Holt  blessed  him  too,  and  then 
the}'  took  leave  of  my  Lady  Viscountess,  who  came  from  her 
apartment  with  a  pocket-handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  her  gen- 
tlewoman and  Mrs.  Tusher  supporting  her.  "  Y"ou  are  going 
to — to  ride,"  says  she.  "Oh,  that  I  might  come  too!  —  but 
in  my  situation  I  am  forbidden  horse  exercise." 

"  We  kiss  my  Lady  Marchioness's  hand,"  says  Mr.  Holt. 

"  My  lord,  God  speed  you  ! "  she  said,  stepping  up  and  em- 
bracing my  lord  in  a  grand  manner.  "Mr.  Holt,  I  ask  your 
blessing :  "  and  she  knelt  down  for  that,  whilst  Mrs.  Tusher 
tossed  her  head  up. 

Mr.  Flolt  gave  the  same  benediction  to  the  little  page,  who 
went  down  and  held  my  lord's  stirrups  for  him  to  mount ;  there 
were  two  servants  waiting  there  too  —  and  they  rode  out  of 
Castlewood  gate. 

As  they  crossed  the  bridge,  Harry  could  see  an  officer  in 
scarlet  ride  up  touching  his  hat,  and  address  my  lord. 


40  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

The  party  stopped,  and  came  to  some  parley  or  discussion, 
which  presently  ended,  my  lord  putting  his  horse  into  a  canter 
after  taking  off  his  hat  and  making  a  bow  to  the  officer,  who 
rode  alongside  him  step  for  step :  the  trooper  accompanying 
him  falling  back,  and  riding  with  my  lord's  two  men.  The}' 
cantered  over  the  Green,  and  behind  the  elms  (m}'  lord  waving 
his  hand,  Harry  thought),  and  so  they  disappeared.  That 
evening  we  had  a  great  panic,  the  cow-boy  coming  at  milking- 
time  riding  one  of  our  horses,  which  he  had  found  grazing  at 
the  outer  park-wall. 

All  night  my  Lady  Viscountess  was  in  a  very  quiet  and  sub- 
dued mood.  She  scarce  found  fault  with  anybody  ;  she  played 
at  cards  for  six  hours  ;  little  page  Esmond  went  to  sleep.  He 
prayed  for  ni}'  lord  and  the  good  cause  before  closing  his  e3'es. 

It  was  quite  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  when  the  porter'6 
bell  rang,  and  old  Lockwood,  waking  up,  let  in  one  of  my 
lord's  servants,  who  had  gone  with  him  in  the  morning,  ami 
who  returned  with  a  melancholy  story.  The  officer  who  rod* 
up  to  my  lord  had,  it  appeared,  said  to  him,  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  inform  his  lordship  that  he  was  not  under  arrest,  but 
under  surveillance,  and  to  request  him  not  to  ride  abroad  that 
day. 

My  lord  replied  that  riding  was  good  for  his  health,  that  if 
the  Captain  chose  to  accompany  him  he  was  welcome  ;  and 
it  was  then  that  he  made  a  bow, .  and  they  cantered  away 
together. 

When  he  came  on  to  Wansey  Down,  m}^  lord  all  of  a  sudden 
pulled  up,  and  the  party  came  to  a  halt  at  the  cross- way. 

"Sir,"  sa3's  he  to  the  officer,  "we  are  four  to  two;  will 
you  be  so  kind  as  to  take  that  road,  and  leave  me  go  mine?" 

"  Your  road  is  mine,  my  lord,"  sa3's  the  officer. 

"  Then  —  "  says  m}^  lord  ;  but  he  had  no  time  to  sa}'  more, 
for  the  officer,  drawing  a  pistol,  snapped  it  at  his  lordship ; 
as  at  the  same  moment  Father  Holt,  drawing  a  pistol,  shot 
the  officer  through  the  head.  It  was  done,  and  the  man 
dead  in  an  instant  of  time.  The  orderly,  gazing  at  the 
officer,  looked  scared  for  a  moment,  and  galloped  awa}"  for 
his  life. 

"  Fire  !  fire  !  "  cries  out  Father  Holt,  sending  another  shot 
after  the  trooper,  but  the  two  servants  were  too  much  surprised 
to  use  their  pieces,  and  my  lord  calling  to  them  to  hold  their 
hands,  the  fellow  got  away. 

"Mr.  Holt,  qui  pensait  a  tout^^  saj's  Blaise,  "gets  off  his 
horse,  examines  the  pockets  of  the  dead  officer  for  papers,  gives 


THE   IIISTOllY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  41 

his  money  to  us  two,  and  sa3's,  '  The  whio  is  drawn,  M.  le  Mar- 
quis,' —  why  did  he  say  Marquis  to  M.  le  Vicomte  ?  —  'we  must 
drinli  it.' 

''  The  poor  gentleman's  horse  was  a  better  one  than  that  I 
rode,"  Blaise  continues  ;  "  Mr.  Ilolt  bids  me  get  on  him,  and 
so  I  gave  a  cut  to  AVhitefoot,  and  she  trotted  home.  We  rode 
on  towards  Newbur}' ;  we  heard  firing  towards  midda3' :  at  two 
o'clock  a  horseman  comes  up  to  us  as  we  were  giving  our  cattle 
water  at  an  inn — and  says,  'AH  is  done!  The  Ecossais  de- 
clared an  hour  too  soon  —  General  Ginckel  was  down  upon 
them.'     The  whole  thing  was  at  an  end. 

"  'And  we've  shot  an  officer  on  duty,  and  let  his  orderly 
escape,'  says  my  lord. 

"'Blaise,'  says  Mr.  Holt,  writing  two  lines  on  his  table- 
book,  one  for  my  ladj'  and  one  for  you.  Master  Harry:  'you 
must  go  back  to  Castlewood,  and  deliver  these,'  and  behold 
me." 

And  he  gave  Harry  the  two  papers.  He  read  that  to  himself, 
which  onl}'  said,  "  Burn  the  papers  in  the  cupboard,  burn  this. 
You  know  nothing  about  anything."  Hany  read  this,  ran  up 
stairs  to  his  mistress's  apartment,  where  her  gentlewoman  slept 
near  to  tlie  door,  made  her  bring  a  light  and  wake  my  lady,  into 
whose  hands  he  gave  the  paper.  She  was  a  wonderful  object 
to  look  at  in  her  night  attire,  nor  had  Harry  ever  seen  the 
like. 

As  soon  as  she  had  the  paper  in  her  hand,  Harry  stepped 
back  to  the  Chaplain's  room,  opened  the  secret  cupboard  over 
the  fireplace,  burned  all  the  papers  in  it,  and,  as  he  had  seen 
the  priest  do  before,  took  down  one  of  his  reverence's  manu- 
script sermons,  and  half  burnt  that  in  the  brazier.  By  the 
time  the  papers  were  quite  destroyed  it  was  daylight.  Harry 
ran  back  to  his  mistress  again.  Her  gentlewoman  ushered  him 
again  into  her  ladyship's  chamber ;  she  told  him  (from  behind 
her  nuptial  curtains)  to  bid  the  coach  be  got  ready,  and  that 
she  would  ride  away  anon. 

But  the  mysteries  of  her  ladj'ship's  toilet  were  as  awfully 
long  on  this  day  as  on  an}^  other,  and,  long  after  the  coach  was 
ready,  my  lad}'  was  still  attiring  herself.  And  just  as  the  Vis- 
countess stepped  forth  from  her  room,  ready  for  departure, 
young  John  Lockwood  comes  running  up  from  the  village  with 
news  that  a  lawyer,  three  officers,  and  twenty  or  four-and-twenty 
soldiers,  were  marching  thence  upon  the  house.  John  had  but 
two  minutes  the  start  of  them,  and,  ere  he  had  well  told  his 
stor}',  the  troop  rode  into  our  court-yard. 


42  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESM0:N^D. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE  ISSUE  OF  THE  PLOTS. THE  DEATH  OF  THOMAS,  THIRD  VIS- 
COUNT OF  CASTLEWOOD  ;  AND  THE  IMPRISONMENT  OF  HIS 
VISCOUNTESS. 

At  first  my  lad}^  was  for  dying  like  Marj^,  Queen  of  Scots 
(to  whom  she  fancied  she  bore  a  resemblance  in  beauty),  and, 
stroking  her  scraggy  neck,  said,  "  The}^  will  find  Isabel  of 
Castiewood  is  equal  to  her  fate."  Her  gentlewoman,  Victoire, 
persuaded  her  that  her  prudent  course  was,  as  she  could  not 
fl}',  to  receive  the  troops  as  though  she  suspected  nothing,  and 
that  her  chamber  was  the  best  place  wherein  to  await  them. 
So  her  black  Japan  casket,  which  Harry  was  to  carry  to  tha 
coach,  was  taken  back  to  her  lad3^ship's  chamber,  whither  the 
maid  and  mistress  retired.  Victoire  came  out  presently,  bid- 
dhig  the  page  to  say  her  ladj^ship  was  ill,  confined  to  her  bed 
with  the  rheumatism. 

By  this  time  the  soldiers  had  reached  Castiewood.  Harry 
Esmond  saw  them  from  the  window  of  the  tapestry  parlor ;  a 
couple  of  sentinels  were  posted  at  the  gate  —  a  half-dozen  more 
walked  towards  the  stable  ;  and  some  others,  preceded  by  their 
commander,  and  a  man  in  black,  a  lawyer  probably,  were  con- 
ducted b}^  one  of  the  servants  to  the  stair  leading  up  to  the 
part  of  the  house  which  mj^  lord  and  lady  inhabited. 

So  the  Captain,  a  handsome  kind  man,  and  the  law3-er, 
came  through  the  ante-room  to  the  tapestry  parlor,  and  where 
now  was  nobodj'  but  young  Harry  Esmond,  the  page. 

"  Tell  your  mistress,  little  man,"  says  the  Captain,  kindly, 
"  that  we  must  speak  to  her." 

"•  My  mistress  is  ill  a-bed,"  said  the  page. 

"  What  complaint  has  she?  "  asked  the  Captain. 

The  boy  said,  "  The  rheumatism  !  " 

"  Rheumatism  !  that's  a  sad  complaint,"  continues  the  good- 
natured  Captain  ;  "  and  the  coach  is  in  the  yard  to  fetch  the 
Doctor,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  says  the  bo}'. 

"  And  how  long  has  her  ladyship  been  ill?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  sa3's  the  boj'. 

' '  When  did  my  lord  go  away  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  night." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  43 

''With  Father  Holt?" 

"  With  Mr.  Holt." 

"  And  which  wa}"  did  they  travel?"  asks  the  lawj^er 

"  They  travelled  without  me,"  says  the  page. 

"  We  must  see  Lady  Castle  wood." 

''I  have  orders  that  nobod}-  goes  in  to  her  lad3'ship  —  she 
is  sick,"  saj's  the  page  ;  but  at  this  moment  Victoire  came  out. 
"  Hush !  "  says  she  ;  and,  as  if  not  knowing  that  any  one  was 
near,  "  What's  this  noise  ?  "  says  she.  "  Is  this  gentleman  the 
Doctor?" 

'•  Stuff!  we  must  see  Lad}-  Castlewood,"  sa^^s  the  lawyer, 
pushing  by. 

The  curtains  of  her  ladyship's  room  were  down,  and  the 
chamber  dark,  and  she  was  in  bed  with  a  nightcap  on  her  head, 
and  propped  up  by  her  pillows,  looking  none  the  less  ghastly 
because  of  the  red  which  was  still  on  her  cheeks,  and  which 
she  could  not  afford  to  forego. 

"  Is  that  the  Doctor?  "  she  said. 

"There  is  no  use  with  this  deception,  madam,"  Captain 
Westbury  said  (for  so  he  was  named).  "  M3'  duty  is  to  arrest 
the  person  of  Thomas,  Viscount  Castlewood,  a  nonjuring  peer 
—  of  Robert  Tusher,  Vicar  of  Castlewood  —  and  Henrj'  Holt, 
known  under  various  other  names  and  designations,  a  Jesuit 
priest,  who  officiated  as  chaplain  here  in  the  late  king's  time, 
and  is  now  at  the  head  of  the  conspiracy  which  was  about  to 
break  out  in  this  country  against  the  authoiity  of  their  Majesties 
King  William  and  Queen  Mary  —  and  my  orders  are  to  search 
the  house  for  such  papers  or  traces  of  the  conspiracy  as  may  be 
found  here.  Your  ladyship  will  please  give  me  3'our  ke^'s,  and 
it  will  be  as  well  for  yourself  that  you  should  help  us,  in  every 
way,  in  our  search." 

"You  see,  sir,  that  I  have  the  rheumatism,  and  cannot 
move,"  said  the  ladj^  looking  uncommonl}-  ghastl3^  as  she  sat 
up  in  her  bed,  where,  however,  she  had  had  her  cheeks  painted, 
and  a  new  cap  put  on,  so  that  she  might  at  least  look  her  best 
when  the  officers  came. 

"  I  shall  take  leave  to  place  a  sentinel  in  the  chamber,  so 
that  3'our  ladyship,  in  case  you  should  wish  to  rise,  ma3^  have 
an  arm  to  lean  on,"  Captain  Westbur3^  said.  "  Your  woman 
will  show  me  wiiere  I  am  to  look  ;  "  and  Madame  Victoire,  chat- 
tering in  her  half  French  and  half  English  jargon,  opened  while 
the  Captain  examined  one  drawer  after  another ;  but,  as  Harr3" 
Esmond  thought,  rather  carelessly,  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  as 
if  he  was  onl3^  conducting  the  examination  for  form's  sake. 


44  THE   HISTORY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

Before  one  of  the  cupboards  Vietoire  flung  herself  down, 
stretching  out  her  arms,  and,  with  a  piercing  shriek,  cried, 
"  Non,  jamais,  monsieur  I'officier  !  Jamais  !  I  will  rather  die 
than  let  you  see  this  wardrobe." 

But  Captain  Westbur}^  would  open  it,  still  with  a  smile  on 
his  face,  which,  v/hen  the  box  was  opened,  turned  into  a  fair 
burst  of  laughter.  It  contained  —  not  papers  regarding  the 
conspirac}^  —  but  my  lady's  wigs,  washes,  and  rouge-pots,  and 
Vietoire  said  men  were  monsters,  as  the  Captain  went  on  with 
his  perquisition.  He  tapped  the  back  to  see  whether  or  no  it 
was  hollow,  and  as  he  thrust  his  hands  into  the  cupboard,  my 
lady  from  her  bed  called  out,  with  a  voice  that  did  not  sound 
like  that  of  a  very  sick  woman,  "Is  it  your  commission  to 
insult  ladies  as  well  as  to  arrest  gentlemen.  Captain  ? " 

"  These  articles  are  only  dangerous  when  worn  by  your 
lad3'ship,"  the  Captain  said,  with  a  low  bow,  and  a  mock  grin 
of  politeness.  ''  I  have  found  nothing  which  concerns  the  Gov- 
ernment as  yet  —  onl}'  the  weapons  with  which  beaut^^  is  author- 
ized to  kill,"  says  he,  pointing  to  a  wig  with  his  sword-tip. 
"  We  must  now  proceed  to  search  the  rest  of  the  house." 

' '  You  are  not  going  to  leave  that  wretch  in  the  room  with 
me,"  cried  my  ladj^,  pointing  to  the  soldier. 

"What  can  I  do,  madam?  Somebod\'  3'ou  must  have  to 
smooth  your  pillow  and  bring  3'our  medicine  —  permit  me  —  " 

"  Sir  !  "  screamed  out  m}-  lad3\ 

"Madam,  if  you  are  too  ill  to  leave  the  bed,"  the  Captain 
then  said,  rather  sternl3',  "I  must  have  in  four  of  my  men  to 
lift  you  off  in  the  sheet.  I  must  examine  this  bed,  in  a  word ; 
papers  may  be  hidden  in  a  bed  as  elsewhere  ;  we  know  that 
ver3^  well  and     *     *     *     ." 

Here  it  was  her  lad3^ship's  turn  to  shriek,  for  the  Captain, 
with  his  fist  shaking  the  pillows  and  bolsters,  at  last  came  to 
"burn"  as  the3'  sa3^  in  the  play  of  forfeits,  and  wrenching 
awa3"  one  of  the  pillows,  said,  "  Look !  did  not  I  tell  3'ou  so? 
Here  is  a  pillow  stuffed  with  paper." 

"  Some  villain  has  betrayed  us,"  cried  out  my  lady,  sitting 
up  in  the  bed,  showing  herself  full  dressed  under  her  night-rail. 

"  And  now  3'our  lad3'ship  can  move,  I  am  sure  ;  permit  me 
to  give  3'ou  my  hand  to  rise.  You  will  have  to  travel  for  some 
distance,  as  far  as  Hexton  Castle  to-night.  Will  you  have 
3'our  coach?  Your  woman  shall  attend  you  if  you  like  —  and 
the  japan-box  ?  " 

"  Sir!  you  don't  strike  a  man  when  he  is  down,"  said  m3^ 
ladj',  with  some  dignity  :  "  can  you  not  spare  a  woman?  " 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  45 

"Your  ladj'ship  must  please  to  rise,  and  let  me  search  the 
bed,"  said  the  Captain;  "there  is  no  more  time  to  lose  in 
bandying  talk." 

And,  without  more  ado,  the  gaunt  old  woman  got  up.  Harry 
Esmond  recollected  to  the  end  of  his  life  that  figure,  with  the 
brocade  dress  and  the  white  night-rail,  and  the  gold-clocked 
red  stockings,  and  white  red-heeled  shoes,  sitting  up  in  the 
bed,  and  stepping  down  from  it.  The  trunks  were  ready 
packed  for  departure  in  her  ante-room,  and  the  horses  ready 
harnessed  in  the  stable  :  about  all  which  the  Captain  seemed  to 
know,  by  information  got  from  some  quarter  or  other ;  and 
whence  JEsmond  could  make  a  pretty  shrewd  guess  in  after- 
times,  when  Dr.  Tusher  complained  that  King  AYilliam's  gov- 
ernment had  basely  treated  him  for  services  done  in  that  cause. 

And  here  he  may  relate,  though  he  was  then  too  young  to 
know  all  that  was  happening,  what  the  papers  contained,  of 
which  Captain  Westbury  had  made  a  seizure,  and  which  papers 
had  been  transferred  from  the  japan-box  to  the  bed  when  the 
officers  arrived. 

There  was  a  list  of  gentlemen  of  the  county  in  Father  Holt's 
handwriting  —  Mr.  Freeman's  (King  James's)  friends  —  a  similar 
paper  being  found  among  those  of  Sir  John  Fenwick  and  Mr. 
Coplestone,  who  suffered  death  for  this  conspiracy. 

There  was  a  patent  conferring  the  title  of  Marquis  of  Es- 
mond on  my  Lord  Castlewood  and  the  heirs-male  of  his  body  ; 
his  appointment  as  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  Count}',  and  Major- 
GeneraL* 

There  were  various  letters  from  the  nobility  and  gentr^^ 
some  ardent  and  some  doubtful,  in  the  King's  service  ;  and 
(very  luckily  for  him)  two  letters  concerning  Colonel  Francis 
Esmond:  one  from  Father  Holt,  which  said,  "I  have  been  to 
see  this  Colonel  at  his  house  at  Walcote,  near  to  Wells,  where 
he  resides  since  the  King's  departure,  and  pressed  him  very 
eagerly  in  Mr.  Freeman's  cause,  showing  him  the  great  advan- 
tage he  would  have  by  trading  with  that  merchant,  offering  him 
large  premiums  there  as  agreed  between  us.  But  he  says  no : 
he  considers  Mr.  Freeman  the  head  of  the  firm,  will  never  trade 

*  To  have  this  rank  of  Marquis  restored  in  the  family  had  always  been 
my  Lady  Viscountess's  ambition  ;  and  her  old  maiden  aunt,  Barbara  Top- 
ham,  the  goldsmith's  daughter,  dying  about  this  time,  and  leaving  all  her 
property  to  Lady  Castlewood,  I  have  heard  that  her  ladyship  sent  almost 
the  whole  of  the  money  to  King  James,  a  proceeding  which  so  irritated  my 
Lord  Castlewood  that  he  actually  went  to  the  parish  church,  and  was  only 
appeased  by  the  Marquis's  title  which  his  exiled  Majesty  sent  to  him  in 
return  for  the  15,000/.  his  faithful  subject  lent  him. 


46  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOXD. 

against  liim  or  embark  with  any  other  trading  company,  but 
considers  his  dut}^  was  done  when  Mr.  Freeman  left  England. 
This  Colonel  seems  to  care  more  for  his  wife  and  his  beagles 
than  for  affairs.  He  asked  me  much  about  3'oung  H.  E.,  ^  that 
bastard,'  as  he  called  him ;  doubting  my  lord's  intentions  re- 
specting him.  I  reassured  him  on  this  head,  stating  what  I 
knew  of  the  lad,  and  our  intentions  respecting  him,  but  with 
regard  to  Freeman  he  was  inflexible." 

And  another  letter  was  from  Colonel  Esmond  to  his  kinsman, 
to  sa}^  that  one  Captain  Holton  had  been  with  him  offering  him 
large  bribes  to  join,  yon  know  who^  and  sajing  that  the  head  of 
the  house  of  Castlewood  was  deeply  engaged  in  that  quarter. 
But  for  his  part  he  had  broke  his  sword  when  the  K.  left  the 
countr}^,  and  would  never  again  fight  in  that  quarrel.  The  P. 
of  O.  was  a  man,  at  least,  of  a  noble  courage,  and  his  duty, 
and,  as  he  thought,  every  Englishman's,  was  to  keep  the  coun- 
try' quiet,  and  the  French  out  of  it :  and,  in  fine,  that  he  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  scheme. 

Of  the  existence  of  these  two  letters  and  the  contents  of  the 
pillow.  Colonel  Frank  Esmond,  who  became  Viscount  Castle- 
wood, told  Henry  Esmond  afterwards,  when  the  letters  were 
shown  to  his  lordship,  who  congratulated  himself,  as  he  had 
good  reason,  that  he  had  not  joined  in  the  scheme  which  proved 
so  fatal  to  manv  concerned  in  it.  But,  naturally,  the  lad  knew 
little  about  these  circumstances  when  they  happened  under  his 
e3'es  :  onl}^  being  aware  that  his  patron  and  his  mistress  were 
in  some  trouble,  which  had  caused  the  flight  of  the  one  and 
the  apprehension  of  the  other  by  the  oflScers  of  King  William. 

The  seizure  of  the  papers  effected,  the  gentlemen  did  not 
pursue  their  further  search  through  Castlewood  House  very 
rigorous^.  Th^y  examined  Mr.  Holt's  room,  being  led  thither 
by  his  pupil,  who  showed,  as  the  Father  had  bidden  him,  the 
place  where  the  key  of  his  chamber  la\',  opened  the  door  for 
the  gentlemen,  and  conducted  them  into  the  room. 

When  the  gentlemen  came  to  the  half-burned  papers  in  the 
brazier,  they  examined  them  eagerly  enough,  and  their  young 
guide  was  a  little  amused  at  their  perplexity. 

"  What  are  these?  "  says  one. 

"  They're  written  in  a  foreign  language,"  says  the  law3"er. 
"What  are  3'ou  laughing  at,  little  whelp?"  adds  he,  turning 
round  as  he  saw  the  boy  smile. 

"Mr.  Holt  said  thej^  were  sermons,"  Harry  said,  "and 
bade  me  to  burn  them ; "  which  indeed  was  true  of  those 
papers. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  47 

*' Sermons  indeed  —  it's  treason,  I  would  lay  a  wager," 
cries  the  law3'er. 

"  Egad  !  it's  Greek  to  me,"  saj's  Captain  Westbury.  "  Can 
you  read  it,  little  bo}'?" 

"Yes,  sir,  a  little,"  Harry  said. 

"  Then  read,  and  read  in  EngUsh,  sir,  on  3'our  peril,"  said 
the  lawyer.     And  Harry  began  to  translate  :  — 

"  Hath  not  one  of  your  own  writers  said,  '  The  children  of 
Adam  are  now  laboring  as  much  as  he  himself  ever  did,  about 
the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  shaking  the  boughs 
thereof,  and  seeking  the  fruit,  being  for  the  most  part  unmind- 
ful of  the  tree  of  life.'  Oh  blind  generation  !  'tis  this  tree  of 
knowledge  to  which  the  serpent  has  led  3'ou  " —  and  here  the 
bo}'  was  obliged  to  stop,  the  rest  of  the  page  being  charred  by 
the  fire  :  and  asked  of  the  law3^er —  "  Shall  I  go  on,  sir?" 

The  lawyer  said  —  "  This  boy  is  deeper  than  he  seems  :  who 
knows  that  he  is  not  laughing  at  us  ?  " 

"  Let's  hav^e  in  Dick  the  Scholar,"  cried  Captain  Westbury, 
laughing :  and  he  called  to  a  trooper  out  of  the  window  — 
"  Ho,  Dick,  come  in  here  and  construe." 

A  thick- set  soldier,  with  a  square  good-humored  face,  came 
In  at  the  summons,  saluting  his  officer. 

"  Tell  us  what  is  this,  Dick,"  says  the  law^yer. 

"  My  name  is  Steele,  sir,"  says  the  soldier.  "  I  may  be 
Dick  for  m}^  friends,  but  I  don't  name  gentlemen  of  your  cloth 
amongst  them." 

"Well  then,  Steele." 

"  Mr.  Steele,  sir,  if  you  please.  When  you  address  a  gen- 
tleman of  his  Majesty's  Horse  Guards,  be  pleased  not  to  be  so 
familiar." 

"  I  didn't  know,  sir,"  said  the  lawj'er. 

"How  shoukl  you?  I  take  it  you  are  not  accustomed  to 
neet  with  gentlemen,"  sa^'s  the  trooper. 

"  Hold  thy  prate,  and  read  that  bit  of  paper,"  saj^s  West- 
Dury. 

"  'Tis  Latin,"  says  Dick,  glancing  at  it,  and  again  saluting 
his  officer,  "  and  from  a  sermon  of  Mr.  Cudworth's,"  and  he 
translated  the  words  pretty  much  as  Henr}"  Esmond  had  ren- 
iered  them. 

"  What  a  young  scholar  you  are,"  says  the  Captain  to  the 
boy. 

"Depend  on't,  he  knows  more  than  he  tells,"  says  the 
lawyer.  "  I  think  we  will  pack  him  off  in  the  coach  with  old 
Jezebel." 


48  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

"For  construing  a  bit  of  Latin?"  said  the  Captain,  very 
good-naturedl\'. 

"  I  would  as  lief  go  there  as  anj'where,"  Harry  Esmond 
said,  simpl}^  "  for  there  is  nobodj'  to  care  for  me." 

There  must  have  been  something  touching  in  the  child's 
voice,  or  in  this  description  of  his  solitude — for  the  Captain 
looked  at  him  very  good-naturedlj^,  and  the  trooper,  called 
Steele,  put  his  hand  kindly  on  the  lad's  head,  and  said  some 
words  in  the  Latin  tongue. 

"  What  does  he  say?"  says  the  lawyer. 

"Faith,  ask  Dick  himself,"  cried  Captain  Westbur}^ 

"I  said  I  was  not  ignorant  of  misfortune  mj^self,  and  had 
learned  to  succor  the  miserable,  and  that's  not  your  trade,  Mr. 
Sheepskin,"  said  the  trooper. 

"  You  had  better  leave  Dick  the  Scholar  alone,  Mr.  Corbet," 
the  Captain  said.  And  Harry  Esmond,  always  touched  by  a 
kind  face  and  kind  word,  felt  very  grateful  to  this  good-natured 
champion. 

The  horses  were  by  this  time  harnessed  to  the  coach ;  and 
the  Countess  and  Victoire  came  down  and  were  put  into  the 
vehicle.  This  woman,  who  quarrelled  with  Harry  Esmond  all 
da}',  was  melted  at  parting  with  hiin,  and  called  him  "dear 
angel,"  and  "  poor  infant,"  and  a  hundred  other  names. 

The  Viscountess,  giving  him  her  lean  hand  to  kiss,  bade 
him  always  be  faithful  to  the  house  of  Esmond.  "  If  evil 
should  happen  to  m\"  lord,"  says  she,  "his  successor,  1  trust, 
will  be  found,  and  give  3'ou  protection.  Situated  as  I  am,  they 
will  not  dare  wreak  their  vengeance  on  me  now.''  And  she 
kissed  a  medal  she  wore  with  great  fervor,  and  Henry  Esmond 
knew  not  in  the  least  what  her  meaning  was  ;  but  hath  since 
learned  that,  old  as  she  was,  she  was  for  ever  expecting,  by 
the  good  offices  of  saints  and  relics,  to  have  an  heir  to  the  title 
of  Esmond. 

Harry  Esmond  was  too  young  to  have  been  introduced  into 
the  secrets  of  politics  in  which  his  patrons  were  implicated ;  for 
they  put  but  few  questions  to  the  boy  (who  was  little  of  stat- 
ure, and  looked  much  3'ounger  than  his  age),  and  such  ques- 
tions as  the}^  put  he  answered  cautiouslj'  enough,  and  professing 
even  more  ignorance  than  he  had,  for  which  his  examiners 
willingly  enough  gave  him  credit.  He  did  not  say  a  word  about 
the  window  or  the  cupboard  over  the  fireplace  ;  and  these  se- 
crets quite  escaped  the  eyes  of  the  searchers. 

So  then  my  lady  was  consigned  to  her  coach,  and  sent  off 
to  Hexton,  with  her  woman  and  the  man  of  law  to  bear  her 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  49 

compan}^  a  couple  of  troopers  riding  on  either  side  of  the 
coach.  And  Harry  was  left  behind  at  the  Hall,  belonging  as 
it  were  to  nobody,  and  quite  alone  in  the  world.  The  captain 
and  a  gaard  of  men  remained  in  possession  there  ;  and  the  sol- 
diers, who  were  very  good-natured  and  kind,  ate  my  lord's 
mutton  and  drank  his  wine,  and  made  themselves  comfortable, 
as  they  well  might  do  in  such  pleasant  quarters. 

The  captains  had  their  dinner  served  in  my  lord's  tapestry 
parlor,  and  poor  little  Harry  thought  his  duty  was  to  wait  upon 
Captain  Westbury's  chair,  as  his  custom  had  been  to  serve  his 
lord  when  he  sat  there. 

After  the  departure  of  the  Countess,  Dick  the  Scholar  took 
Harry  Esmond  under  his  special  protection,  and  would  examine 
him  in  his  humanities  and  talk  to  him  both  of  French  and  Latin, 
in  which  tongues  the  lad  found,  and  his  new  friend  was  willing 
enough  to  acknowledge,  that  he  was  even  more  proficient  than 
Scholar  Dick.  Hearing  that  he  had  learned  them  from  a  Jesuit, 
in  the  praise  of  whom  and  whose  goodness  Harry  was  never 
tired  of  speaking,  Dick,  rather  to  the  boy's  surprise,  who  began 
to  have  an  early  shrewdness,  like  man}'  children  bred  up  alone, 
showed  a  great  deal  of  theological  science,  and  knowledge  of 
the  points  at  issue  between  the  two  churches ;  so  that  he  and 
Harry  would  have  hours  of  controversy  together,  in  which  the 
boy  was  certainly  worsted  by  the  arguments  of  this  singular 
trooper.  "  I  am  no  common  soldier,"  Dick  would  say,  and  in- 
deed it  was  easy  to  see  by  his  learning,  breeding,  and  many 
accomphshments,  that  he  was  not.  "  I  am  of  one  of  the  most 
ancient  famiUes  in  the  empire  ;  I  have  had  my  education  at  a 
famous  school,  and  a  famous  universit}' ;  I  learned  m}'  first  rudi- 
ments of  Latin  near  to  Smithfield,  in  London,  where  the  mar- 
tyrs were  roasted." 

'^  You  hanged  as  many  of  ours,"  interposed  Harry  ;  "  and, 
for  the  matter  of  persecution,  Father  Holt  told  me  that  a^'oung 
gentleman  of  Edinburgh,  eighteen  years  of  age,  student  at  the 
college  there,  was  hanged  for  heres}'  only  last  j^ear,  though  he 
recanted,  and  solemnl}'  asked  pardon  for  his  errors." 

' '  Faith  !  there  has  been  too  much  persecution  on  both  sides  : 
but  'twas  you  taught  us." 

"  Nay,  'twas  the  Pagans  began  it,"  cried  the  lad,  and  began 
to  instance  a  number  of  saints  of  the  Church,  from  the  proto- 
martyr  downwards  —  "  this  one's  fire  went  out  under  him  :  that 
one's  oil  cooled  in  the  caldron :  at  a  third  hol}^  head  the  exe- 
cutioner chopped  three  times  and  it  would  not  come  off.     Show 

4 


50  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

us  martyrs  in  your  church  for  whom  such  miracles  have  been 
done." 

"  Na}',"  sa^'s  the  trooper  gravely,  "  the  miracles  of  the  first 
three  centuries  belong  to  my  Church  as  well  as  3'ours,  Master 
Papist,"  and  then  added,  with  something  of  a  smile  upon  his 
countenance,  and  a  queer  look  at  Harry  —  "  And  yet,  my  little 
catechiser,  I  have  sometimes  thought  about  those  miracles,  that 
there  was  not  much  good  in  them,  since  the  victim's  head  always 
finished  by  coming  off  at  the  third  or  fourth  chop,  and  the  cal- 
dron, if  it  did  not  boil  one  day,  boiled  the  next.  Howbeit,  in 
our  times,  the  Church  has  lost  that  questionable  advantage  of 
respites.  There  never  was  a  shower  to  put  out  Ridle3''s  fire, 
nor  an  angel  to  turn  the  edge  of  Campion's  axe.  The  rack  tore 
the  limbs  of  Southwell  the  Jesuit  and  S^'mpson  the  Protestant 
alike.  For  faith,  everywhere  multitudes  die  willingly  enough. 
I  have  read  in  Monsieur  Rycaut's  '  Historj^  of  the  Turks,'  of 
thousands  of  Mahomet's  followers  rushing  upon  death  in  battle 
as  upon  certain  Paradise  ;  and  in  the  great  Mogul's  dominions 
people  fling  themselves  by  hundreds  under  the  cars  of  the  idols 
annually,  and  the  widows  burn  themselves  on  their  husbands' 
bodies,  as  'tis  well  known.  'Tis  not  the  dying  for  a  faith  that's 
so  hard,  Master  Harry  —  every  man  of  every  nation  has  done 
that  —  'tis  the  living  up  to  it  that  is  difficult,  as  I  know  to  my 
cost,"  he  added  with  a  sigh.  "  And  ah  !  "  he  added,  "  my  poor 
lad,  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  convince  thee  b3'  my  life  — 
though  to  die  for  my  religion  would  give  me  the  greatest  of  joys 
—  but  I  had  a  dear  friend  in  Magdalen  College  in  Oxford ;  I 
wish  Joe  Addison  were  here  to  convince  thee,  as  he  quickly 
could  —  for  I  think  he's  a  match  for  the  whole  College  of 
Jesuits  ;  and  what's  more,  in  his  life  too.  In  that  very  sermon 
of  Dr.  Cud  worth's  which  j^our  priest  was  quoting  from,  and 
which  suffered  martydom  in  the  brazier,"  —  Dick  added  with  a 
smile,  "  I  had  a  thought  of  wearing  the  black  coat  (but  was 
ashamed  of  my  life,  you  see,  and  took  to  this  sorry  red  one)  ; 
I  have  often  thought  of  Joe  Addison  —  Dr.  Cudworth  says, 
*  A  good  conscience  is  the  best  looking-glass  of  heaven '  —  and 
there's  serenity  in  my  friend's  face  which  always  reflects  it  —  I 
wish  you  could  see  him,  Harry." 

"Did  he  do  you  a  great  deal  of  good?"  asked  the  lad, 
simply. 

"  He  might  have  done,"  said  the  other  —  "at  least  he  taught 
me  to  see  and  approve  better  things.  'Tis  my  own  fault,  dete- 
riora  aeqiii.'^ 

"You  seem  very  good,"  the  boy  said. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  51 

*'  I'm  not  what  I  seem,  alas  !  "  answered  the  trooper  —  and 
indeed,  as  it  turned  out,  poor  Dick  told  the  truth  —  for  that 
verj^  night,  at  supper  in  the  hall,  where  the  gentlemen  of  the 
troop  took  their  repasts,  and  passed  most  part  of  their  daj^s 
dicing  and  smoking  of  tobacco,  and  singing  and  cursing,  over 
the  Castlewood  ale  —  Harry  Esmond  found  Dick  the  Scholar  in 
a  woful  state  of  drunkenness.  He  hiccupped  out  a  sermon  ; 
and  his  laughing  companions  bade  him  sing  a  hymn,  on  which 
Dick,  swearing  he  would  run  the  scoundrel  through  the  bod}^ 
who  insulted  his  religion,  made  for  his  sword,  which  was  hang- 
ing on  the  wall,  and  fell  down  flat  on  the  floor  under  it,  saying 
to  Harr}',  who  ran  forward  to  help  him,  "Ah,  little  Papist,  1 
wish  Joseph  Addison  was  here  !  " 

Though  the  troopers  of  the  King's  Life-Guards  were  all 
gentlemen,  3'et  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen  seemed  ignorant  and 
vulgar  boors  to  Harry  Esmond,  with  the  exception  of  this  good- 
natured  Corporal  Steele  the  Scholar,  and  Captain  Westbury  and 
Lieutenant  Trant,  who  were  always  kind  to  the  lad.  They  re- 
mained for  some  weeks  or  months  encamped  in  Castlewood,  and 
Harry  learned  from  them,  from  time  to  time,  how  the  lady  at 
Hexton  Castle  was  treated,  and  the  particulars  of  her  confine- 
ment there.  'Tis  known  that  King  William  was  disposed  to 
deal  very  leniently  with  the  gentr}^  who  remained  faithful  to  the 
old  King's  cause ;  and  no  prince  usurping  a  crown,  as  his  ene- 
mies said  he  did,  (righteously  taking  it,  as  I  think  now,)  ever 
caused  less  blood  to  be  shed.  As  for  women-conspirators,  he 
kept  spies  on  the  least  dangerous,  and  locked  up  the  others. 
Lady  Castlewood  had  the  best  rooms  in  Hexton  Castle,  and  the 
gaoler's  garden  to  walk  in  ;  and  though  she  repeatedly  desired 
to  be  led  out  to  execution,  hke  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  there 
never  was  an}"  thought  of  taking  her  painted  old  head  off,  or 
any  desire  to  do  aught  but  keep  her  person  in  security. 

And  it  appeared  she  found  that  some  were  friends  in  her 
misfortune,  whom  she  had,  in  her  prosperit}^,  considered  as  her 
worst  enemies.  Colonel  Francis  Esmond,  my  lord's  cousin 
and  her  ladyship's,  who  had  married  the  Dean  of  Winchester's 
daughter,  and,  since  King  James's  departure  out  of  England, 
had  lived  not  very  far  awa}^  from  Hexton  town,  hearing  of  his 
kinswoman's  strait,  and  being  friends  with  Colonel  Brice,  com- 
manding for  King  William  in  Hexton,  and  with  the  Church 
dignitaries  there,  came  to  visit  her  ladyship  in  prison,  offering 
to  his  uncle's  daughter  any  friendly  services  which  lay  in  his 
power.  And  he  brought  his  lady  and  little  daughter  to  see  the 
prisoner,  to  the  latter  of  whom,  a  child  of  great  beauty  and 


52  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

man}^  winning  ways,  the  old  Viscountess  took  not  a  little  liking, 
although  between  her  ladyship  and  the  child's  mother  there  was 
little  more  love  than  formerly.  There  are  some  injuries  which 
women  never  forgive  one  another  ;  and  Madam  Francis  Esmond, 
in  marrying  her  cousin,  had  done  one  of  those  irretrievable 
wrongs  to  Lady  Castlewood.  But  as  she  was  now  humiliated, 
and  in  misfortune,  Madam  Francis  could  allow  a  truce  to  her 
enmity,  and  could  be  kind  for  a  while,  at  least,  to  her  hus- 
band's discarded  mistress.  So  the  little  Beatrix,  her  daughter, 
was  permitted  often  to  go  and  visit  the  imprisoned  Viscountess, 
who,  in  so  far  as  the  child  and  its  father  were  concerned,  got 
to  abate  in  her  anger  towards  that  branch  of  the  Castlewood 
family.  And  the  letters  of  Colonel  Esmond  coming  to  light, 
as  has  been  said,  and  his  conduct  being  known  to  the  King's 
council,  the  Colonel  was  put  in  a  better  position  with  the  ex- 
isting government  than  he  had  ever  before  been ;  any  suspi- 
cions regarding  his  lo3'alty  were  entirely  done  away ;  and  so  he 
was  enabled  to  be  of  more  service  to  his  kinswoman  than  he 
could  otherwise  have  been. 

And  now  there  befell  an  event  by  which  this  lad}-  recovered 
her  liberty,  and  the  house  of  Castlewood  got  a  new  owner,  and 
fatherless  little  Harry  Esmond  a  new  and  most  kind  protector 
and  friend.  Whatever  that  secret  was  which  Harr}^  was  to 
hear  from  my  lord,  the  bo}^  never  heard  it ;  for  that  night  when 
Father  Holt  arrived,  and  carried  my  lord  away  with  him,  was 
the  last  on  which  Harr}^  ever  saw  his  patron.  What  happened 
to  my  lord  ma}'  be  briefly  told  here.  Having  found  the  horses 
at  the  place  where  the}^  were  l3'ing,  my  lord  and  Father  Holt 
rode  together  to  Chatteris,  where  they  had  temporary  refuge 
with  one  of  the  Father's  penitents  in  that  city ;  but  the  pursuit 
being  hot  for  them,  and  the  reward  for  the  apprehension  of 
one  or  the  other  considerable,  it  was  deemed  advisable  that  they 
should  separate  ;  and  the  priest  betook  himself  to  other  places 
of  retreat  known  to  him,  whilst  my  lord  passed  over  from  Bris- 
tol into  Ireland,  in  which  kingdom  King  James  had  a  court 
and  an  arm}'.  My  lord  was  but  a  small  addition  to  this  ;  bring- 
ing, indeed,  onl}-  his  sword  and  the  few  pieces  in  his  pocket ; 
but  the  King  received  him  with  some  kindness  and  distinction 
in  spite  of  his  poor  plight,  confirmed  him  in  his  new  title  of 
Marquis,  gave  him  a  regiment,  and  promised  him  farther  pro- 
motion. But  titles  or  promotion  were  not  to  benefit  him  now. 
My  lord  was  wonnded  at  the  fatal  battle  of  the  Boyne,  flying 
from  which  field  (long  after  his  master  had  set  him  an  exam- 
ple) he  lay  for  a  while  concealed  in  the  marshy  country  near  to 


THE   HISTOKY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  53 

the  town  of  Trim,  and  more  from  catarrh  and  fever  caught  in 
the  bogs  than  from  the  steel  of  the  enemy  in  the  battle,  sank 
and  died.  May  the  earth  lie  light  upon  Thomas  of  Castlewood  ! 
He  who  writes  this  must  speak  in  charity,  though  this  lord  did 
him  and  his  two  grievous  wrongs :  for  one  of  these  he  would 
have  made  amends,  perhaps,  had  life  been  spared  him ;  but  the 
other  lay  beyond  his  power  to  repair,  though  'tis  to  be  hoped 
that  a  greater  Power  than  a  priest  has  absolved  him  of  it.  He 
got  the  comfort  of  this  absolution,  too,  such  as  it  was  :  a  priest 
of  Trim  writing  a  letter  to  my  lady  to  inform  her  of  this 
calamit3^ 

But  in  those  days  letters  were  slow  of  travelling,  and  our 
priest's  took  two  months  or  more  on  its  journey  from  Ireland  to 
England  :  where,  wlien  it  did  arrive,  it  did  not  find  my  lad}'  at 
her  own  house  ;  she  was  at  the  King's  house  of  Hexton  Castle 
when  the  letter  came  to  Castlewood,  but  it  was  opened  for  all 
that  by  the  officer  in  command  there. 

Harr}^  Esmond  well  remembered  the  receipt  of  this  letter, 
which  Lockwood  brought  in  as  Captain  Westbury  and  Lieuten- 
ant Trant  were  on  the  green  playing  at  bowls,  young  Esmond 
looking  on  at  the  sport,  or  reading  his  book  in  the  arbor. 

"  Here's  news  for  Frank  Esmond,"  says  Captain  Westbur}' ; 
"Harr}',  did  you  ever  see  Colonel  Esmond?"  And  Captain 
Westbury  looked  verj^  hard  at  the  boy  as  he  spoke. 

Harr}^  said  he  had  seen  him  but  once  when  he  was  at  Hex- 
ton,  at  the  ball  there. 

"  And  did  he  say  anything?" 

"  He  said  what  I  don't  care  to  repeat,"  Harry  answered. 
For  he  was  now  twelve  years  of  age :  he  knew  what  his  birth 
was,  and  the  disgrace  of  it ;  and  he  felt  no  love  towards  the 
man  who  had  most  likely  stained  his  mother's  honor  and  his 
own. 

"  Did  you  love  m}^  Lord  Castlewood?  " 

"  I  wait  until  I  know  my  mother,  sir,  to  say,"  the  boy  an- 
swered, his  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"  Something  has  happened  to  Lord  Castlewood,"  Captain 
Westbury  said  in  a  ver}'  grave  tone  —  "  something  which  must 
happen  to  us  all.  He  is  dead  of  a  wound  received  at  the  Boj^ne, 
fighting  for  King  James." 

"I  am  glad  my  lord  fought  for  the  right  cause,"  the  boy 
said. 

"  It  was  better  to  meet  death  on  the  field  like  a  man,  than 
face  it  on  Tower-hill,  as  some  of  them  ma}',"  continued  Mr. 
Westbury.     "  I  hope  he  has  made  some  testament,  or  provided 


54  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENKY  ESMOND. 

for  thee  somehow.  This  letter  says  he  recommends  unicum 
filmm  suum  dilectlssimum  to  his  lady.  I  hope  he  has  left  you 
more  than  that." 

Harry  did  not  know,  he  said.  He  was  in  the  hands  of 
Heaven  and  Fate  ;  but  more  lonely  now,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
than  he  had  been  all  the  rest  of  his  life  ;  and  that  night,  as  he  lay 
in  his  little  room  which  he  still  occupied,  the  boy  thought  with 
many  a  pang  of  shame  and  grief  of  his  strange  and  solitary 
condition  :  —  how  he  had  a  father  and  no  father ;  a  nameless 
mother  that  had  been  brought  to  ruin,  perhaps,  b}'  that  very 
father  whom  Harry  could  only  acknowledge  in  secret  and  with 
a  blush,  and  whom  he  could  neither  love  nor  revere.  And  he 
sickened  to  think  how  Father  Holt,  a  stranger,  and  two  or 
three  soldiers,  his  acquaintances  of  the  last  six  weeks,  were  the 
only  friends  he  had  in  the  great  wide  world,  where  he  was  now 
quite  alone.  The  soul  of  the  boy  was  full  of  love,  and  he 
longed  as  he  lay  in  the  darkness  there  for  some  one  upon  whom 
he  could  bestow  it.  He  remembers,  and  must  to  his  dying  da}', 
the  thoughts  and  tears  of  that  long  night,  the  hours  tolling 
through  it.  Who  was  he,  and  what  ?  Wh}^  here  rather  than  else- 
where ?  I  have  a  mind,  he  thought,  to  go  to  that  priest  at  Trim, 
and  find  out  what  my  father  said  to  him  on  his  death-bed  con- 
fession. Is  there  any  child  in  the  whole  w^orld  so  unprotected 
as  I  am?  Shall  I  get  up  and  quit  this  place,  and  run  to  Ireland? 
With  these  thoughts  and  tears  the  lad  passed  that  night  away 
until  he  wept  himself  to  sleep. 

The  next  da}^,  the  gentlemen  of  the  guard,  who  had  heard 
•what  had  befallen  him,  were  more  than  usually  kind  to  the 
child,  especially  his  friend  Scholar  Dick,  who  told  him  about 
his  own  father's  death,  which  had  happened  when  Dick  was  a 
child  at  Dublin,  not  quite  five  years  of  age.  "That  was  the 
first  sensation  of  grief,"  Dick  said,  "  I  ever  knew.  I  remember 
I  went  into  the  room  where  his  body  lay,  and  my  mother  sat 
weeping  beside  it.  I  had  mj  battledore  in  my  hand,  and  fell 
a-beating  the  coffin,  and  calling  Papa ;  on  which  my  mother 
caught  me  in  her  arms,  and  told  me  in  a  flood  of  tears  Papa 
could  not  hear  me,  and  would  plaj^  with  me  no  more,  for  they 
were  going  to  put  him  under  ground,  whence  he  could  never 
come  to  us  again.  And  this,"  said  Dick  kindly,  "has  made 
me  pity  all  children  ever  since  ;  and  caused  me  to  love  thee,  my 
poor  fatherless,  motherless  lad.  And,  if  ever  thou  wantest  a 
friend,  thou  shalt  have  one  in  Richard  Steele." 

Harry  Esmond  thanked  him,  and  was  grateful.  But  what 
could  Corporal  Steele  do  for  him?  take  him  to  ride  a  spare 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  55 

horse,  and  be  servant  to  the  troop?  Though  there  might  be 
a  bar  in  Harry  Esmond's  shield,  it  was  a  noble  one.  The  coun- 
sel of  the  two  friends  was,  that  little  Harr}^  should  stay  where 
he  was,  and  abide  his  fortune  :  so  Esmond  stayed  on  at  Castle- 
wood,  awaiting  with  no  small  anxiet}'  the  fate,  whatever  it  was, 
which  was  over  him. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I    AM    LEFT    AT   CASTLE  WOOD     AN    ORPHAN,    AND    FIND    MOST    KIND 
PROTECTORS   THERE. 

During  the  sta}^  of  the  soldiers  in  Castlewood,  honest  Dick 
the  Scholar  was  the  constant  companion  of  the  loneh^  little 
orphan  lad  Harry  Esmond :  and  they  read  together,  and  they 
played  bowls  together,  and  when  the  other  troopers  or  their 
officers,  who  were  free-spoken  over  their  cups,  (as  was  the  way 
of  that  da}^  when  neither  men  nor  women  were  over-nice,) 
t,alked  unbecominglj^  of  their  amours  and  gallantries  before  the 
<3hild,  Dick,  who  veiy  likel}"  was  setting  the  whole  company 
laughing,  would  stop  their  jokes  with  a  maxima  debetur  pueris 
revererdia^  and  once  offered  to  lug  out  against  another  trooper 
called  Hulking  Tom,  who  wanted  to  ask  Harry  Esmond  a 
ribald  question. 

Also,  Dick  seeing  that  the  child  had,  as  he  said,  a  sensi- 
bilit}^  above  his  3'ears,  and  a  great  and  praiseworthy  discretion, 
confided  to  Harry  his  love  for  a  vintner's  daughter,  near  to  the 
Tollyard,  Westminster,  whom  Dick  addressed  as  Saccharissa  in 
many  verses  of  his  composition,  and  without  whom  he  said  it 
would  be  impossible  that  he  could  continue  to  live.  He  vowed 
this  a  thousand  times  in  a  day,  though  Harr}^  smiled  to  see  the 
love-lorn  swain  had  his  health  and  appetite  as  well  as  the  most 
heart-whole  trooper  in  the  regiment :  and  he  swore  Harry  to 
secrecy  too,  which  vow  the  lad  religiousl}'  kept,  until  he  found 
that  officers  and  privates  were  all  taken  into  Dick's  confidence, 
and  had  the  benefit  of  his  verses.  And  it  must  be  owned  like- 
wise that,  while  Dick  was  sighing  after  Saccharissa  in  London, 
he  had  consolations  in  the  country  ;  for  there  came  a  wench 
out  of  Castlewood  village  who  had  washed  his  linen,  and  who 
cried  sadly  when  she  heard  he  was  gone :  and  without  paying 
her  bill  too,  which  Hany  Esmond  took  upon  himself  to  dis- 
charge by  giving  the  girl  a  silver  pocket-piece,  which  Scholar 


56  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

Dick  had  presented  to  him,  when,  with  many  embraces  and 
prayers  for  his  prosperit}',  Dick  parted  from  him,  the  garrison 
of  Castlewood  being  ordered  away.  Dick  the  Scholar  said  he 
would  never  forget  his  young  friend,  nor  indeed  did  he :  and 
Harry  was  sorry  when  the  kind  soldiers  vacated  Castlewood, 
looking  forward  with  no  small  anxiet}'  (for  care  and  solitude  had 
made  him  thoughtful  beyond  his  years)  to  his  fate  when  the  new 
lord  and  lady  of  the  house  came  to  live  there.  He  had  lived  to 
be  past  twelve  years  old  now  ;  and  had  never  had  a  friend,  save 
this  wild  trooper,  perhaps,  and  Father  Holt ;  and  had  a  fond 
and  affectionate  heart,  tender  to  weakness,  that  would  fain 
attach  itself  to  somebod}^  and  did  not  seem  at  rest  until  it  had 
found  a  friend  who  would  take  charge  of  it. 

The  instinct  which  led  Henry  Esmond  to  admire  and  love 
the  gracious  person,  the  fair  apparition  of  whose  beauty  and 
kindness  had  so  moved  him  when  he  first  beheld  her,  became 
soon  a  devoted  affection  and  passion  of  gratitude,  which  entirely 
filled  his  young  heart,  that  as  3'et,  except  in  the  case  of  dear 
Father  Holt,  had  had  very  little  kindness  for  which  to  be  thank- 
ful. 0  Dea  certe^  thought  he,  remembering  the  lines  out  of  the 
^neas  which  Mr.  Holt  had  taught  him.  There  seemed,  as 
the  boy  thought,  in  every  look  or  gesture  of  this  fair  creature, 
an  angelical  softness  and  bright  pity  —  in  motion  or  repose  she 
seemed  gracious  alike  ;  the  tone  of  her  voice,  though  she  uttered 
words  ever  so  trivial,  gave  him  a  pleasure  that  amounted  almost 
to  anguish.  It  cannot  be  called  love,  that  a  lad  of  twelve  years 
of  age,  little  more  than  a  menial,  felt  for  an  exalted  lady,  his 
mistress :  but  it  was  worship.  To  catch  her  glance,  to  divine 
her  errand  and  run  on  it  before  she  had  spoken  it ;  to  watch, 
follow,  adore  lier  ;  became  the  business  of  his  life.  Meanwhile, 
as  is  the  way  often,  his  idol  had  idols  of  her  own,  and  never 
thought  of  or  suspected  the  admiration  of  her  httle  pigmy 
adorer. 

My  lad}^  had  on  her  side  her  three  idols  :  first  and  foremost, 
Jove  and  supreme  ruler,  was  her  lord,  Harry's  patron,  the  good 
Viscount  of  Castlewood.  All  wishes  of  his  were  laws  with  her. 
If  he  had  a  headache,  she  was  ill.  If  he  frowned,  she  trembled. 
If  he  joked,  she  smiled  and  was  charmed.  If  he  went  a-hunt- 
ing,  she  was  always  at  the  window  to  see  him  ride  awaj*,  her 
little  son  crowing  on  her  arm,  or  on  the  watch  till  his  return. 
She  made  dishes  for  his  dinner :  spiced  wine  for  him :  made 
the  toast  for  his  tankard  at  breakfast :  hushed  the  house  when 
he  slept  in  his  chair,  and  watched  for  a  look  when  he  woke.  If 
m3'  lord  was  not  a  little  proud  of  his  beauty,  mj'  lad}'  adored 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  57 

it.  She  clung  to  his  arm  as  he  paced  the  terrace,  her  two  fair 
little  hands  clasped  round  his  great  one  ;  her  eyes  were  never 
tired  of  looking  in  his  face  and  wondering  at  its  perfection. 
Her  little  son  was  his  son,  and  had  his  father's  look  and  curly  > 
brown  hair.  Her  daughter  Beatrix  was  his  daughter,  and  had 
his  e3-es  —  were  there  ever  such  beautiful  eyes  in  the  world  ? 
All  the  house  was  arranged  so  as  to  bring  him  ease  and  give 
him  pleasure.  She  hked  the  small  gentry  round  about  to  come 
and  pay  him  court,  never  caring  for  admiration  for  herself; 
those  who  wanted  to  be  well  with  the  lady  must  admire  him. 
Not  regarding  her  dress,  she  would  wear  a  gown  to  rags,  be- 
cause he  had  once  liked  it :  and,  if  he  brought  her  a  brooch  or 
a  ribbon,  would  prefer  it  to  all  the  most  costly  articles  of  her 
wardrobe. 

My  lord  went  to  London  every  year  for  six  weeks,  and  the 
family  being  too  poor  to  appear  at  Court  with  any  figure,  he 
went  alone.  It  was  not  until  he  was  out  of  sight  that  her 
face  showed  an}^  sorrow :  and  what  a  joy  when  he  came  back ! 
What  preparation  before  his  return !  The  fond  creature  had 
his  arm-chair  at  the  chimney-side  —  dehghting  to  put  the  chil- 
dren in  it,  and  look  at  them  there.  Nobody  took  his  place  at 
the  table ;  but  his  silver  tankard  stood  there  as  when  my  lord 
was  present. 

A  prett}^  sight  it  was  to  see,  during  my  lord's  absence,  or  on 
those  many  mornings  when  sleep  or  headache  kept  him  a-bed, 
this  fair  young  lad}^  of  Castlewood,  her  little  daughter  at  her 
knee,  and  her  domestics  gathered  round  her,  reading  the  Morn? 
ing  Prayer  of  the  English  Church.  Esmond  long  remembered 
how  she  looked  and  spoke,  kneeling  reverently  before  the  sacred 
book,  the  sun  shining  upon  her  golden  hair  until  it  made  a  halo 
round  about  her.  A  dozen  of  the  servants  of  the  house  kneeled 
in  a  line  opposite  their  mistress  ;  for  a  while  Harr}^  Esmond 
kept  apart  from  these  mysteries,  but  Doctor  Tusher  showing 
him  that  the  pra3'ers  read  were  those  of  the  Church  of  all  ages, 
and  the  boy's  own  inclination  prompting  him  to  be  always  as 
near  as  he  might  to  his  mistress,  and  to  think  all  things  she  did 
right,  from  listening  to  the  pra3'ers  in  the  ante-chamber,  he 
came  presentl}^  to  kneel  down  with  the  rest  of  the  household  in 
the  parlor ;  and  before  a  couple  of  3"ears  m3^  lady  had  made  a 
thorough  convert.  Indeed,  the  bo3'  loved  his  catechiser  so  much 
that  he  would  have  subscribed  to  an3^thing  she  bade  him,  and 
was  never  tired  of  listening  to  her  fond  discourse  and  simple 
comments  upon  the  book,  which  she  read  to  him  in  a  voice  of 
which  it  was  difficult  to  resist  the  sweet  persuasion  and  tender 


58  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

appealing  kindness.  This  friendly  controversy,  and  the  inti- 
macy which  it  occasioned,  bound  the  lad  more  fondl}'  than  ever 
to  his  mistress.  The  happiest  period  of  all  his  life  was  this  ; 
and  the  3"oung  mother,  with  her  daughter  and  son,  and  the 
orphan  lad  whom  she  protected,  read  and  worked  and  pla3^ed, 
and  were  children  together.  If  the  lad}'  looked  forward  —  as 
what  fond  woman  does  not?  —  towards  tlie  future,  she  had  no 
plans  from  which  Harry  Esmond  was  left  out ;  and  a  thousand 
and  a  thousand  times,  in  his  passionate  and  impetuous  way,  he 
vowed  that  no  power  should  separate  him  from  his  mistress ; 
and  onh'  asked  for  some  chance  to  happen  b}^  which  he  might 
show  his  fidelit}'  to  her.  Now,  at  the  close  of  his  life,  as  he 
sits  and  recalls  in  tranquillity  the  happ}^  and  busy  scenes  of  it, 
he  can  think,  not  ungratefully,  that  he  has  been  faithful  to  that 
early  vow.  Such  a  life  is  so  simple  that  3'ears  may  be  chron- 
icled in  a  few  lines.  But  few  men's  life-vo3'ages  are  destined 
to  be  all  prosperous  ;  and  this  calm  of  which  we  are  speaking 
was  soon  to  come  to  an  end. 

As  P^smond  grew,  and  observed  for  himself,  he  found  of 
necessity  much  to  read  and  think  of  outside  that  fond  circle 
of  kinsfolk  who  had  admitted  him  to  join  hand  with  them.  He 
read  more  books  than  tlie}^  cared  to  stud}^  with  him ;  was  alone 
in  the  midst  of  them  many  a  time,  and  passed  nights  over 
labors,  futile  perhaps,  but  in  which  the}'  could  not  join  him. 
His  dear  mistress  divined  his  thoughts  with  her  usual  jealous 
watchfulness  of  affection :  began  to  forebode  a  time  when  he 
would  escape  from  his  home-nest ;  and,  at  his  eager  protesta- 
tions to  the  contrar3^,  would  only  sigh  and  shake  her  head. 
Before  those  fatal  decrees  in  life  are  executed,  there  are  alwa3's 
secret  previsions  and  warning  omens.  When  everything  3'et 
seems  calm,  we  are  aware  that  the  storm  is  coming.  Ere  the 
happy  days  were  over,  two  at  least  of  that  home-part}'  felt  that 
they  were  drawing  to  a  close  ;  and  were  uneasy,  and  on  the 
look-out  for  the  cloud  which  was  to  obscure  their  calm. 

'Twas  easy  for  Harry  to  see,  however  much  his  lady  per- 
sisted in  obedience  and  admiration  for  her  husband,  that  my  lord 
tired  of  his  quiet  life,  and  grew  weary,  and  then  testy,  at  those 
gentle  bonds  with  which  his  wife  would  have  held  him.  As  they 
say  the  Grand  Lama  of  Thibet  is  ver}'  much  fatigued  by  his  char- 
acter of  divinity,  and  yawns  on  his  altar  as  his  bonzes  kneel  and 
worship  him,  man}-  a  home-god  grows  heartil3'  sick  of  the  rev- 
erence with  which  his  family-devotees  pursue  him,  and  sighs  for 
freedom  and  for  his  old  life,  and  to  be  off  the  pedestal  on  which 
his  dependants  would  have  him  sit  for  ever,  whilst  they  adore 


THE   HISTOKY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  59 

him,  and  pi}'  him  with  flowers,  and  h3'mns,  and  incense,  and 
flattery  ;  —  so,  after  a  few  years  of  his  marriage  my  lionest  Lord 
Castlewood  began  to  tire  ;  all  the  high-flown  raptures  and  devo- 
tional ceremonies  with  which  his  wife,  his  chief  priestess,  treat- 
ed him,  first  sent  him  to  sleep,  and  then  drove  him  out  of  doors  ; 
for  the  truth  must  be  told,  that  mj'  lord  was  a  jolh'  gentleman, 
with  very  little  of  the  august  or  divine  in  his  nature,  though  his 
fond  wife  persisted  in  revering  it —  and,  besides,  he  had  to  pay 
a  penalty  for  this  love,  which  persons  of  his  disposition  seldom 
like  to  defray  :  and,  in  a  word,  if  he  had  a  loving  wife,  had  a 
very  jealous  and  exacting  one.  Then  he  wearied  of  this  jeal- 
ousy ;  then  he  broke  away  from  it ;  then  came,  no  doubt, 
complaints  and  recriminations ;  then,  perhaps,  promises  of 
amendment  not  fulfilled  ;  then  upbraidings  not  the  more  pleas- 
ant because  they  were  silent,  and  only  sad  looks  and  tearful 
eyes  conveyed  them.  Then,  perhaps,  the  pair  reached  that 
other  stage  which  is  not  uncommon  in  married  life,  when  the 
woman  perceives  that  the  god  of  the  honeymoon  is  a  god  no 
more  ;  onl}'  a  mortal  like  the  rest  of  us  —  and  so  she  looks  into 
her  heart,  and  lo  !  vocucb  sedes  et  inania  arcana.  And  now,  sup- 
posing our  lad}'  to  have  a  fine  genius  and  a  brilliant  wit  of  her 
own,  and  the  magic  spell  and  infatuation  removed  from  her 
which  had  led  her  to  worship  as  a  god  a  very  ordinary  mortal  — 
and  what  follows  ?  They  live  together,  and  they  dine  together, 
and  they  say  ' '  my  dear  "  and  ' '  m}'  love  "  as  heretofore  ;  but 
the  man  is  himself,  and  the  woman  herself:  that  dream  of  love 
is  over  as  everything  else  is  over  in  life ;  as  flowers  and  fury, 
and  griefs  and  pleasures,  are  over. 

Very  likely  the  Lady  Castlewood  had  ceased  to  adore  her 
husband  herself  long  before  she  got  oflf  her  knees,  or  would 
allow  her  household  to  discontinue  worshipping  him.  To  do 
him  justice,  mj'  lord  never  exacted  this  subservience  :  he  laughed 
and  joked  and  drank  his  bottle,  and  swore  when  he  was  angry, 
much  too  familiarl}'  for  any  one  pretending  to  sublimit}^ ;  and 
did  his  best  to  destroy  the  ceremonial  with  which  his  wdfe  chose 
to  surround  him.  And  it  required  no  great  conceit  on  voung  Es- 
mond's part  to  see  that  his  own  brains  were  better  than  his  pa- 
tron's, who,  indeed,  never  assumed  an}'  airs  of  superiority  over 
the  lad,  or  over  any  dependant  of  his,  save  when  he  was  dis- 
pleased, in  which  case  he  would  express  his  mind  in  oaths  very 
freely;  and  who,  on  the  contrary,  perhaps,  spoiled  "Parson 
Harry,"  as  he  called  young  Esmond,  by  constantly  praising  his 
parts  and  admiring  his  boyish  stock  of  learning. 

It  may  seem  ungracious  in  one  who  has  received  a  hundred 


60  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

favors  from  his  patron  to  speak  in  any  but  a  reverential  manner 
of  his  elders  ;  but  the  present  writer  has  had  descendants  of  his 
own,  whom  he  has  brought  up  witli  as  little  as  possible  of  the 
servility"  at  present  exacted  b}^  parents  from  children  (under 
which  mask  of  dut}'  there  often  lurks  indifference,  contempt,  or 
rebellion)  :  and  as  he  would  have  his  grandsons  believe  or  rep- 
resent him  to  be  not  an  inch  taller  than  Nature  has  made  him  : 
so,  with  regard  to  his  past  acquaintances,  he  would  speak  with- 
out anger,  but  with  truth,  as  far  as  he  knows  it,  neither  extenu- 
ating nor  setting  down  aught  in  malice. 

80  long,  then,  as  the  world  moved  according  to  Lord  Castle- 
wood's  wishes,  he  was  good-humored  enough ;  of  a  temper 
naturall}'  sprightly  and  eas}',  liking  to  joke,  especially  with  his 
inferiors,  and  charmed  to  receive  the  tribute  of  their  laughter. 
All  exercises  of  the  bod}^  he  could  perform  to  perfection  — 
shooting  at  a  mark  and  flying,  breaking  horses,  riding  at  the 
ring,  pitching  the  quoit,  playing  at  all  games  with  great  skill. 
And  not  only  did  he  do  these  things  well,  but  he  thought  he  did 
them  to  perfection  ;  hence  he  was  often  tricked  about  horses, 
which  he  pretended  to  know  better  than  any  jocke}-  ;  was  made 
to  play  at  ball  and  billiards  b}^  sharpers  who  took  his  money, 
and  came  back  from  London  wofully  poorer  each  time  than  he 
went,  as  the  state  of  his  affairs  testified  when  the  sudden  acci- 
dent came  b}^  which  his  career  was  brought  to  an  end. 

Pie  was  fond  of  the  parade  of  dress,  and  passed  as  many 
hours  daily  at  his  toilette  as  an  elderly  coquette.  A  tenth  part 
of  his  da}^  was  spent  in  the  brushing  of  his  teeth  and  the  oiling 
of  his  hair,  which  was  curling  and  brown,  and  which  he  did  not 
like  to  conceal  under  a  periwig,  such  as  almost  everybody  of 
that  time  wore.  (We  have  the  liberty  of  our  hair  back  now, 
but  powder  and  pomatum  along  with  it.  When,  I  wonder,  will 
these  monstrous  poll-taxes  of  our  age  be  withdrawn,  and  men 
allowed  to  cany  their  colors,  black,  red,  or  gray,  as  Nature 
made  them?)  And  as  he  liked  her  to  be  well  dressed,  his  lad}' 
spared  no  pains  in  that  matter  to  please  him ;  indeed,  she 
would  dress  her  head  or  cut  it  off  if  he  had  bidden  her. 

It  was  a  wonder  to  young  Esmond,  serving  as  page  to  m}' 
lord  and  ladj',  to  hear,  day  after  da}',  to  such  company  as  came, 
the  same  boisterous  stories  told  by  my  lord,  at  which  his  lad}- 
never  failed  to  smile  or  hold  down  her  head,  and  Doctor  Tusher 
to  burst  out  laughing  at  the  proper  point,  or  cr}',  "Fie,  m}^ 
lord,  remember  m}'  cloth  !  "  but  with  such  a  faint  show  of  resist- 
ance, that  it  onl}^  provoked  m}^  lord  further.  Lord  Castlewood's 
stories  rose  by  degrees,  and  became  stronger  after  the  ale  at 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  61 

dinner  and  the  bottle  afterwards  ;  my  lad}'  always  taking  flight 
after  the  very  first  glass  to  Church  and  King,  and  leaving  the 
gentlemen  to  drink  the  rest  of  the  toasts  b}^  themselves. 

And,  as  Harry  Esmond  was  her  page,  he  also  was  called 
from  duty  at  this  time.  "My  lord  has  lived  in  the  arm}'  and 
with  soldiers,"  she  would  say  to  the  lad,  "amongst  whom 
great  license  is  allowed.  You  have  had  a  different  nurture, 
and  I  trust  these  things  will  change  as  you  grow  older ;  not 
that  an}'  fault  attaches  to  my  lord,  who  is  one  of  the  best  and 
most  religious  men  in  this  kingdom."  And  very  likely  she 
believed  so.  'Tis  strange  what  a  man  may  do,  and  a  woman 
yet  think  him  an  angel. 

And  as  Esmond  has  taken  truth  for  his  motto,  it  must  be 
owned,  even  with  regard  to  that  other  angel,  his  mistress,  that 
she  had  a  fault  of  character  wliich  flawed  her  perfections. 
With  the  other  sex  perfectly  tolerant  and  kindly,  of  her  own 
she  was  invariably  jealous  ;  and  a  proof  that  she  had  this  vice 
is,  that  though  she  would  acknowledge  a  thousand  faults  that 
she  had  not,  to  this  which  she  had  she  could  never  be  got  to 
own.  But  if  there  came  a  woman  with  even  a  semblance  of 
beauty  to  Castlewood,  she  was  so  sure  to  find  out  some  wrong 
in  her,  that  my  lord,  laughing  in  his  jolly  way,  would  often 
joke  with  her  concerning  her  foible.  Comely  servant-maids 
might  come  for  hire,  but  none  were  taken  at  Castlewood.  The 
housekeeper  was  old  ;  my  lady's  own  waiting-woman  squinted, 
and  was  marked  with  the  small-pox ;  the  housemaids  and  scul- 
lion were  ordinary  country  wenches,  to  whom  Lady  Castlewood 
was  kind,  as  her  nature  made  her  to  everybody  almost;  but  as 
soon  as  ever  she  had  to  do  with  a  pretty  woman,  she  was  cold, 
retiring,  and  haughty.  The  country  ladies  found  this  fault  in 
her ;  and  though  the  men  all  admired  her,  their  wives  and 
daughters  complained  of  her  coldness  and  airs,  and  said  that 
Castlewood  was  pleasanter  in  Lady  Jezebel's  time  (as  the 
dowager  was  called)  than  at  present.  Some  few  were  of  my 
mistress's  side.  Old  Lady  Blenkinsop  Jointure,  who  had  been 
at  court  in  King  James  the  First's  time,  always  took  her  side  ; 
and  so  did  old  Mistress  Crookshank,  Bishop  Crookshank's 
daughter,  of  Hexton,  who,  with  some  more  of  their  like,  pro- 
nounced my  lady  an  angel :  but  the  pretty  women  were  not  of 
this  mind  ;  and  the  opinion  of  the  country  was  that  my  lord 
was  tied  to  his  wife's  apron-strings,  and  that  she  ruled  over 
him. 

The  second  fight  which  Harry  Esmond  had,  was  at  fourteen 
years  of   age,  with  Bryan  Hawkshaw,  Sir  John  Hawkshaw's 


62  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

son,  of  Bramblebrook,  who,  advancing  this  opinion,  that  my 
lad}^  was  jealous  and  henpecked  my  lord,  put  Harry  in  such  a 
fury,  that  Harrj^  fell  on  him  and  with  such  rage,  that  the  other 
boy,  who  was  two  j^ears  older  and  by  far  bigger  than  he,  had 
by  far  the  worst  of  the  assault,  until  it  was  interrupted  by 
Doctor  Tiisher  walking  out  of  the  dinner-room. 

Br3'an  Hawkshaw  got  up  bleeding  at  the  nose,  having,  in- 
deed, been  surprised,  as  many  a  stronger  man  might  have  been, 
by  the  fur}^  of  the  assault  upon  him. 

"  You  little  bastard  beggar  !  "  he  said,  "  I'll  murder  you  for 
this ! " 

And  indeed  he  was  big  enough. 

"Bastard  or  not,"  said  the  other,  grinding  his  teeth,  "I 
have  a  couple  of  swords,  and  if  you  like  to  meet  me,  as  a  man, 
on  the  terrace  to-night  —  " 

And  here  the  Doctor  coming  up,  the  colloquy  of  the  young 
champions  ended.  Very  likely,  big  as  he  was,  Hawkshaw  did 
not  care  to  continue  a  fight  with  such  a  ferocious  opponent  as 
this  had  been. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

AFTER   GOOD   FORTUNE    COMES   ETIL. 

Since  my  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  brought  home  the 
custom  of  inoculation  from  Turke}'  (a  perilous  practice  many 
deem  it,  and  only  a  useless  rushing  into  the  jaws  of  danger) ,  I 
think  the  severity  of  the  small-pox,  that  dreadful  scourge  of 
the  world,  has  somewhat  been  abated  in  our  part  of  it ;  and  re- 
member in  my  time  hundreds  of  the  young  and  beautiful  who 
have  been  carried  to  the  grave,  or  have  only  risen  from  their 
pillows  frightfully  scarred  and  disfigured  by  this  malady.  Many 
a  sweet  face  hath  left  its  roses  on  the  bed  on  which  this  dread- 
ful and  withering  blight  has  laid  them.  In  m}'  early  daj-s,  this 
pestilence  would  enter  a  village  and  destroy  half  its  inhabitants  : 
at  its  approach,  it  may  well  be  imagined,  not  onlj-  the  beautiful 
but  the  strongest  were  alarmed,  and  those  fled  who  could.  One 
day  in  the  year  1694  (I  have  good  reason  to  remember  it), 
Doctor  Tusher  ran  into  Castle  wood  House,  with  a  face  of  con- 
sternation, saying  that  the  malad\^  had  made  its  appearance  at 
the  blacksmith's  house  in  the  village,  and  that  one  of  the  maids 
there  was  down  in  the  small-pox. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  63 

The  blacksmith,  besides  his  forge  and  irons  for  horses,  had 
an  ale-house  for  men,  which  his  wife  kept,  and  his  company 
sat  on  benches  before  the  inn-door,  looking  at  the  smithy  while 
they  drank  their  beer.  Now,  there  was  a  pretty  girl  at  this 
irin,  the  landlord's  men  called  Nancy  Sievewright,  a  bouncing, 
fresh-looking  lass,  whose  face  was  as  red  as  the  hollyhocks 
over  the  pales  of  the  garden  behind  the  inn.  At  this  time 
Harr}"  Esmond  was  a  lad  of  sixteen,  and  somehow  in  his  walks 
and  rambles  it  often  happened  that  he  fell  in  with  Nancy  Sieve- 
wright's  bonny  face ;  if  he  did  not  want  something  done  at  the 
blacksmith's  he  would  go  and  drink  ale  at  the  ''  Three  Castles," 
or  find  some  pretext  for  seeing  this  poor  Nancy.  Poor  thing, 
Harry  meant  or  imagined  no  harm ;  and  she,  no  doubt,  as 
little,  but  the  truth  is  they  were  always  meeting  —  in  the  lanes, 
or  by  the  brook,  or  at  the  garden-pahngs,  or  about  Castlewood  : 
it  was,  "  Lord,  Mr.  Henry !  "  and  "  How  do  you  do,  Nancy?" 
many  and  many  a  time  in  the  week.  'Tis  surprising  the  mag- 
netic attraction  which  draws  people  together  from  ever  so  far. 
I  blush  as  I  think  of  poor  Nanc}"  now,  in  a  red  bodice  and 
buxom  purple  cheeks  and  a  canvas  petticoat ;  and  that  I  de- 
vised schemes,  and  set  traps,  and  made  speeches  in  my  heart, 
which  I  seldom  had  courage  to  say  when  in  presence  of  that 
humble  enchantress,  who  knew  nothing  be3'ond  milking  a  cow, 
and  opened  her  black  eyes  with  wonder  when  I  made  one  of 
my  fine  speeches  out  of  Waller  or  Ovid.  Poor  Nancy  !  from 
the  midst  of  far-off  years  thine  honest  country  face  beams 
out ;  and  I  remember  thy  kind  voice  as  if  I  had  heard  it  3'es- 
terday. 

When  Doctor  Tusher  brought  the  news  that  the  small-pox 
was  at  the  "  Three  Castles,"  whither  a  tramper,  it  was  said,  had 
brought  the  malad}',  Henry  Esmond's  first  thought  was  of 
alarm  for  poor  Nanc}',  and  then  of  shame  and  disquiet  for  the 
Castlewood  famil}',  lest  he  might  have  brought  this  infection ; 
for  the  truth  is  that  Mr.  Harry  had  been  sitting  in  a  back  room 
for  an  hour  that  day,  where  Nancy  Sievewright  w^as  with  a 
little  brother  who  complained  of  headache,  and  was  lying  stupe- 
fied and  cr3ing,  either  in  a  chair  by  the  corner  of  the  fire,  or  in 
Nancy's  lap,  or  on  mine. 

Little  Lady  Beatrix  screamed  out  at  Dr.  Tusher's  news  ; 
and  my  lord  cried  out,  "God  bless  me!"  He  was  a  brave 
man,  and  not  afraid  of  death  in  any  shape  but  this.  He  was 
very  proud  of  his  pink  complexion  and  fair  hair  —  but  the  idea 
of  death  by  small-pox  scared  him  beyond  all  other  ends.  "  We 
will  take  the  children  and  ride  away  to-morrow  to  Walcote : " 


64  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

this  was  mj  lord's  small  house,  inherited  from  his  mother,  near 
to  Winchester. 

"  That  is  the  best  refuge  in  case  the  disease  spreads,"  said 
Dr.  Tusher.  "  'Tis  awful  to  think  of  it  beginning  at  the  ale- 
house ;  half  the  people  of  the  village  have  visited  that  to-day, 
or  the  blacksmith's,  which  is  the  same  thing.  M}^  clerk  Nahum 
lodges  with  them  —  I  can  never  go  into  my  reading-desk  and 
have  that  fellow  so  near  me.      I  worCt  have  that  man  near  me." 

"  If  a  parishioner  dying  in  the  small-pox  sent  to  you,  would 
you  not  go?"  asked  my  lad}',  looking  up  from  her  frame  of 
work,  with  her  calm  blue  eyes. 

"  By  the  Lord,  /wouldn't,"  said  my  lord. 

' '  We  are  not  in  a  popish  countrj^ ;  and  a  sick  man  doth  not 
absolutel}'  need  absolution  and  confession,"  said  the  Doctor. 
'''Tis  true  the\-  are  a  comfort  and  a  help  to  him  when  attain- 
able, and  to  be  administered  with  hope  of  good.  But  in  a  case 
where  the  life  of  a  parish  priest  in  the  midst  of  his  flock  is 
higWy  valuable  to  them,  he  is  not  called  upon  to  risk  it  (and 
therewith  the  lives,  future  prospects,  and  temporal,  even  spiritual 
welfare  of  his  own  family)  for  the  sake  of  a  single  person,  who 
is  not  very  likelj'  in  a  condition  even  to  understand  the  religious 
message  whereof  the  priest  is  the  bringer  —  being  uneducated, 
and  likewise  stupefied  or  delirious  b}-  disease.  If  your  ladj'ship 
or  his  lordship,  m}^  excellent  good  friend  and  patron,  were  to 
take  it  ...  " 

"  God  forbid  !  "  cried  my  lord. 

"Amen,"  continued  Dr.  Tusher.  "Amen  to  that  pra3'er, 
my  very  good  lord  !  for  your  sake  I  would  lay  m}^  life  down  " 
—  and,  to  judge  from  the  alarmed  look  of  the  Doctor's  purple 
face,  you  would  have  thought  that  that  sacrifice  was  about  to  be 
called  for  instantly. 

To  love  children,  and  be  gentle  with  them,  was  an  instinct, 
rather  than  a  merit,  in  Henry  Esmond  ;  so  much  so,  that  he 
thought  almost  with  a  sort  of  shame  of  his  liking  for  them,  and 
of  the  softness  into  which  it  betrayed  him  ;  and  on  this  da}^  the 
poor  fellow  had  not  onl}^  had  his  young  friend,  the  milkmaid's 
brother,  on  his  knee,  but  had  been  drawing  pictures  and  telling 
stories  to  the  little  Frank  Castlewood,  who  had  occupied  the 
same  place  for  an  hour  after  dinner,  and  was  never  tired  of 
Henry's  tales,  and  his  pictures  of  soldiers  and  horses.  As  luck 
would  have  it,  Beatrix  had  not  on  that  evening  taken  her  usual 
place,  which  generally  she  was  glad  enough  to  have,  upon  her 
tutor's  lap.  For  Beatrix,  from  the  earliest  time,  was  jealous  of 
every  caress  which  was  given  to  her  little  brother  Frank.     She 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  65 

would  fling  away  even  from  the  maternal  arms,  if  she  saw  Frank 
had  been  there  before  her ;  insomuch  that  Lad}^  Esmond  was 
obliged  not  to  show  her  love  for  her  son  in  the  presence  of  the 
little  girl,  and  embraced  one  or  the  other  alone.  She  would  turn 
pale  and  red  with  rage  if  she  caught  signs  of  intelligence  or 
affection  between  Frank  and  his  mother ;  would  sit  apart,  and 
not  speak  for  a  whole  night,  if  she  thought  the  boy  had  a  better 
fruit  or  a  larger  cake  than  hers  ;  would  fling  away  a  ribbon  if 
he  had  one  ;  and  from  the  earliest  age,  sitting  up  in  her  little 
chair  bj'  the  great  fireplace  opposite  to  the  corner  where  Lady 
Castle  wood  commonl}-  sat  at  her  embroidery,  would  utter  in- 
fantine sarcasms  about  the  favor  shown  to  her  brother.  These, 
if  spoken  in  the  presence  of  Lord  Castlewood,  tickled  and 
amused  his  humor ;  he  would  pretend  to  love  Frank  best,  and 
dandle  and  kiss  him,  and  roar  with  laughter  at  Beatrix's  jeal- 
ousy. But  the  truth  is,  m}'  lord  did  not  often  witness  these 
scenes,  nor  ver}^  much  trouble  the  quiet  fireside  at  which  his 
lad^'  passed  man}^  long  evenings.  My  lord  was  hunting  all  day 
when  the  season  admitted  ;  he  frequented  all  the  cock-fights  and 
fairs  in  the  country,  and  would  ride  twenty  miles  to  see  a  main 
fought,  or  two  clowns  break  their  heads  at  a  cudgelhng-match  ; 
and  he  liked  better  to  sit  in  his  parlor  drinking  ale  and  punch 
with  Jack  and  Tom,  than  in  his  wife's  drawing-room  :  whither, 
if  he  came,  he  brought  only  too  often  bloodshot  eyes,  a  hic- 
cup[)ing  voice,  and  a  reeling  gait.  The  management  of  the 
house,  and  the  propert}',  the  care  of  the  few  tenants  and  the 
village  poor,  and  the  accounts  of  the  estate,  were  in  the  hands 
of  his  lady  and  her  .young  secretar}^  Harry  Esmond.  My  lord 
took  charge  of  the  stables,  the  kennel,  and  the  cellar  —  and  he 
filled  this  and  emptied  it  too. 

So  it  chanced  that  upon  this  very  day,  when  poor  Harry 
Esmond  had  had  the  blacksmith's  son,  and  the  peer's  son,  alike 
upon  his  knee,  little  Beatrix,  who  would  come  to  her  tutor 
willing]}"  enough  with  her  book  and  her  writing,  had  refused 
him,  seeing  the  place  occupied  b}'  her  brother,  and,  luckil}'  for 
her,  had  sat  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  awa}'  from  him, 
pla3ing  with  a  spaniel  dog  which  she  had,  (and  for  which,  b}' 
fits  and  starts,  she  would  take  a  great  affection,)  and  talking  at 
Harry  Esmond  over  her  shoulder,  as  she  pretended  to  caress  the 
dog,  sa3ing  that  Fido  would  love  her,  and  she  would  love  Fido, 
and  nothing  but  Fido  all  her  life. 

When,  then,  the  news  was  brought  that  the  little  bo}^  at  the 
' '  Three  Castles  "  was  ill  with  the  small-pox,  poor  Harry  Es- 
mond felt  a  shock  of  alarm,  not  so  much  for  himself  as  for  his 


66  THE   HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND. 

mistress's  son,  whom  he  might  have  brought  into  peril.  Beatrix, 
who  had  pouted  sufficiently^  (and  who,  whenever  a  stranger  ap- 
peared, began,  from  infanc}'  almost,  to  play  off  little  graces  to 
catch  his  attention,)  her  brother  being  now  gone  to  bed,  was  for 
taking  her  place  upon  Esmond's  knee :  for,  though  the  Doctor 
was  very  obsequious  to  her,  she  did  not  like  him,  because  he 
had  thick  boots  and  dirty  hands  (the  pert  young  miss  said),  and 
because  she  hated  learning  the  catechism. 

But  as  she  advanced  towards  Esmond  from  the  corner  where 
she  had  been  sulking,  he  started  back  and  placed  the  great  chair 
on  which  he  was  sitting  between  him  and  her  —  saying  in  the 
French  language  to  Lady  Castlewood,  with  whom  the  young  lad 
had  read  much,  and  whom  he  had  perfected  in  this  tongue  — 
*•  Madam,  the  child  must  not  approach  me  ;  I  must  tell  3'ou  that 
I  was  at  the  blacksmith's  to-da}^,  and  had  his  little  boy  upon 
my  lap." 

"Where  3'ou  took  my  son  afterwards,"  Lady  Castlewood 
said,  very  angry,  and  turning  red.  "I  thank  3^ou,  sir,  for 
giving  him  such  company.  Beatrix,"  she  said  in  English,  "  I 
forbid  you  to  touch  Mr.  Esmond.  Come  awa}^,  child  —  come 
to  your  room.  Come  to  your  room  —  I  wish  j'our  Reverence 
good-night  —  and  you,  sir,  had  you  not  better  go  back  to  your 
friends  at  the  ale-house?"  Her  e3^es,  ordinarilj^  so  kind,  darted 
flashes  of  anger  as  she  spoke  ;  and  she  tossed  up  her  head 
(which  hung  down  commonly)  with  the  mien  of  a  princess. 

"  He^'-da}^  "  says  mj-  lord,  who  was  standing  by  the  fire- 
place —  indeed  he  was  in  the  position  to  which  he  generally 
came  b}'  that  hour  of  the  evening  —  "  He^^-da}' !  Rachel,  what 
are  3'ou  in  a  passion  about?  Ladies  ought  never  to  be  in  a  pas- 
sion. Ought  thev.  Doctor  Tusher?  though  it  does  good  to  see 
Rachel  in  a  passion  —  Damme,  Lady  Castlewood,  3^ou  look 
dev'lish  handsome  in  a  passion." 

"  It  is,  m3'  lord,  because  Mr.  Henr3^  Esmond,  having  noth- 
ing to  do  with  his  time  here,  and  not  having  a  taste  for  our 
company,  has  been  to  the  ale-house,  where  he  has  some  friends.^' 

M3'  lord  burst  out,  with  a  laugh  and  an  oath  —  "  You  young 

sl3"boots,  you've  been  at  Nanc3^  Sievewright.    D the  3^oung 

h3pocrite,  who'd  have  thought  it  in  him?  I  sa3^,  Tusher,  he's 
been  after  —  " 

"  Enough,  my  lord,"  said  my  lady,  "  don't  insult  me  with 
this  talk." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  poor  Harry,  read3^  to  cr3^  with  shame 
and  mortification,  "  the  honor  of  that  young  person  is  perfectly 
unstained  for  me." 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HEXRY  ESMOND.  67 

"  Oh,  of  course,  of  course,"  says  my  lord,  more  and 
more  laughing  and  tipsy.  "  Upon  his  honor ^  Doctor  —  Nancy 
Sieve —     .     .     ." 

''  Take  Mistress  Beatrix  to  bed,"  my  lady  cried  at  this  mo- 
ment to  Mrs.  Tucker  her  woman,  who  came  in  with  her  lady- 
ship's tea.  "Put  her  into  my  room  —  no,  into  yours,"  she 
added  quickly.  "  Go,  my  child  :  go,  I  sa}^ :  not  a  word  !  "  And 
Beatrix,  quite  surprised  at  so  sudden  a  tone  of  authority  from 
one  wlio  was  seldom  accustomed  to  raise  her  voice,  went  out  of 
the  room  with  a  scared  countenance,  and  waited  even  to  burst 
out  a-crying  until  she  got  to  the  door  with  Mrs.  Tucker. 

For  once  her  mother  took  little  heed  of  her  sobbing,  and 
continued  to  speak  eagerh'  —  "  My  lord,"  she  said,  "  this  young 
man  —  your  dependant  —  told  me  just  now  in  French  —  he  was 
ashamed  to  speak  in  his  own  language  —  that  he  had  been  at  the 
ale-house  all  day,  where  he  has  had  that  little  wretch  who  is  now 
ill  of  the  small-pox  on  his  knee.  And  he  comes  home  reeking 
from  that  place  —  yes,  reeking  from  it  —  and  takes  my  boy  into 
his  lap  without  shame,  and  sits  down  by  me,  yes,  by  me.  He 
may  have  killed  Frank  for  what  I  know —  killed  our  child. 
Why  was  he  brought  in  to  disgrace  our  house  ?  Why  is  he  here  ? 
Let  him  go  —  let  him  go,  I  saj^,  to-night,  and  pollute  the  place 
no  more." 

She  had  never  once  uttered  a  syllable  of  unkindness  to 
Harry  Esmond  ;  and  her  cruel  words  smote  the  poor  bo}",  so 
that  he  stood  for  some  moments  bewildered  with  grief  and  rage 
at  the  injustice  of  such  a  stab  from  such  a  hand.  He  turned 
quite  white  from  red,  which  he  had  been. 

"  I  cannot  help  my  birth,  madam,"  he  said,  "  nor  my  other 
misfortune.  And  as  for  3^our  boy,  if —  if  my  coming  nigh  to 
him  pollutes  him  now,  it  was  not  so  always.  Good-night,  my 
lord.  Heaven  bless  you  and  yours  for  your  goodness  to  me.  I 
have  tired  her  ladyship's  kindness  out,  and  I  will  go ; "  and, 
sinking  down  on  his  knee,  Harrj^  Esmond  took  the  rough  hand 
of  his  benefactor  and  kissed  it. 

"  He  wants  to  go  to  the  ale-house  —  let  him  go,"  cried  my 
lady. 

"  I'm  d — d  if  he  shall,"  said  my  lord.  "  I  didn't  think  you 
could  be  so  d — d  ungrateful,  Rachel." 

Her  reply  was  to  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  to  (juit  the 
room  with  a  rapid  glance  at  Harry  Esmond,  —  as  my  lord,  not 
heeding  them,  and  still  in  great  good-humor,  raised  up  his 
young  client  from  his  kneeling  posture  (for  a  thousand  kind- 


68  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

nesses  had  caused  the  lad  to  revere  my  lord  as  a  father),  and 
put  his  broad  hand  on  Harry  Esmond's  shoulder. 

"  She  was  alwa3's  so,"  m^^  lord  said  ;  "  the  very  notion  of  a 
woman  drives  her  mad.  I  took  to  liquor  on  that  very  account, 
by  Jove,  for  no  other  reason  than  that ;  for  she  can't  be  jealous 

of  a  beer-barrel  or  a  bottle  of  rum,  can  she,  Doctor?     D it, 

look  at  the  maids  — just  look  at  the  maids  in  the  house  "  (my 
lord  pronounced  all  the  words  together  — just-look-at-the-maze- 
in-the-house :  jever-see-such-maze?)  "You  wouldn't  take  a 
wife  out  of  Castlewood  now,  would  you,  Doctor?"  and  my  lord 
burst  out  laughing. 

The  Doctor,  who  had  been  looking  at  m}"  Lord  Castlewood 
from  under  his  eyelids,  said,  "But  joking  apart,  and,  my  lord, 
as  a  divnie,  I  cannot  treat  the  subject  in  a  jocular  light,  nor,  as 
a  pastor  of  this  congregation,  look  with  anything  but  sorrow  at 
the  idea  of  so  very  young  a  sheep  going  astray." 

"  Sir,"  said  young  Esmond,  bursting  out  indignantly,  "  she 
told  me  that  you  yourself  were  a  horrid  old  man,  and  had  offijred 
to  kiss  her  in  the  dairy." 

"For  shame,  Henry,"  cried  Doctor  Tusher,  turning  as  red 
as  a  turke3'-cock,  while  my  lord  continued  to  roar  with  laughter. 
' '  If  you  listen  to  the  falsehoods  of  an  abandoned  girl  —  " 

"  She  is  as  honest  as  any  woman  in  England,  and  as  pure 
for  me,"  cried  out  Henry,  "  and  as  kind,  and  as  good.  For 
shame  on  3^ou  to  malign  her  !  " 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  do  so,"  cried  the  Doctor.  "  Heaven 
grant  I  may  be  mistaken  in  the  girl,  and  in  you,  sir,  who  have 
a  truly  precocious  genius  ;  but  that  is  not  the  point  at  issue  at 
present.  It  appears  that  the  small-pox  broke  out  in  the  little 
boy  at  the  '  Three  Castles  ; '  that  it  was  on  him  when  you 
visited  the  ale-house,  for  your  own  reasons  ;  and  that  3^ou  sat 
with  the  child  for  some  time,  and  immediately  afterwards  with 
ray  young  lord."  The  Doctor  raised  his  voice  as  he  spoke,  and 
looked  towards  my  lady,  who  had  now  come  back,  looking  very 
pale,  with  a  handkerchief  in  her  hand. 

"  This  is  all  very  true,  sir,"  said  Lady  Esmond,  looking  at 
the  young  man. 

"  'Tis  to  be  feared  that  he  may  'lave  brought  the  infection 
with  him." 

"  From  the  ale-house  —  3^es,"  said  m3'  lady. 

"D "  it,  I  forgot  when  I  collared  3'ou,  bo3',"  cried  my 

lord,  stepping  back.     "Keep  off,  Harry  my  boy;  there's  no 
good  in  running  into  the  wolf's  jaws,  you  know." 

My  lady  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise,  and  instantly 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HEXRY   ESMOND.  69 

advancing  to  Henry  Esmond,  took  his  hand.  "  I  beg  3'our 
pardon,  Henr}^"  she  said;  "1  spoke  very  unkindly.  I  have 
no  right  to  interfere  with  3"0u  —  with  3^our  —  " 

My  lord  broke  out  into  an  oath.  "  Can't  you  leave  the  boy 
alone,  my  lady?"  She  looked  a  little  red,  and  faintly  pressed 
the  lad's  hand  as  she  dropped  it. 

"  There  is  no  use,  my  lord,"  she  said  ;  "  Frank  was  on  his 
knee  as  he  was  making  pictures,  and  was  running  constantly 
from  Henry  to  me.     The  evil  is  done,  if  any." 

"  Not  with  me,  damme,"  cried  my  lord.  "Tve  been  smok- 
ing,"—  and  he  lighted  his  pipe  again  with  a  coal — ''and  it 
keeps  off  infection  ;  and  as  the  disease  is  in  the  village  —  plague 
take  it  —  I  would  have  you  leave  it.  We'll  go  to-morrow  to 
Walcote,  my  lady." 

"  I  have  no  fear,"  said  my  lady ;  "  I  may  have  had  it  as  an 
infant :  it  broke  out  in  our  house  then  ;  and  when  four  of  my 
sisters  had  it  at  home,  two  years  before  our  marriage,  I  escaped 
it,  and  two  of  my  dear  sisters  died." 

"  1  won't  run  the  risk,"  said  my  lord  ;  "  I'm  as  bold  as  any 
man,  but  I'll  not  bear  that." 

"Take  Beatrix  with  you  and  go,"  said  my  lady.  "  For  us 
the  mischief  is  done ;  and  Tucker  can  wait  upon  us,  who  has 
had  the  disease." 

"  You  take  care  to  choose  'em  ugly  enough,"  said  my  lord, 
at  which  her  ladyship  hung  down  her  head  and  looked  foolish  : 
and  m}'  lord,  calhng  awa}^  Tusher,  bade  him  come  to  the  oak 
parlor  and  have  a  pipe.  The  Doctor  made  a  low  bow  to  her 
lad3'ship  (of  which  salaams  he  was  profuse),  and  walked  off  on 
his  creaking  square-toes  after  his  patron. 

When  the  lad}'  and  the  3'oung  man  were  alone,  there  was  a 
silence  of  some  moments,  during  which  he  stood  at  the  fire, 
looking  rather  vacantly  at  the  d^ing  embers,  whilst  her  ladyship 
busied  herself  wdth  the  tambour-frame  and  needles. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  in  a  hard,  dry  voice, 
-T- "  I  repeat  I  am  sorrj^  that  I  showed  m3'self  so  ungrateful  for 
the  safety  of  m}^  son.  It  was  not  at  all  my  wish  that  3'ou 
should  leave  us,  I  am  sure,  unless  you  found  pleasure  else- 
where. But  3'ou  must  perceive,  Mr.  Esmond,  that  at  3'our  age, 
and  with  your  tastes,  it  is  impossible  that  you  can  continue  to 
sta3^  upon  the  intimate  footing  in  which  3'ou  have  been  in  this 
famil3\  You  have  wished  to  go  to  the  Universit3',  and  I  think 
'tis  quite  as  well  that  3'OU  should  be  sent  thither.  I  did  not 
press  this  matter,  thinking  3'ou  a  child,  as  3'ou  are,  indeed,  in 
years  —  quite   a  child ;    and  I  should  never  have   thought  of 


70  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND. 

treating  3^011  otherwise  until  —  until  these  circumstances  came  to 
light.  And  I  shall  beg  m}^  lord  to  despatch  3'ou  as  quick  as 
possible  :  and  will  go  on  with  Frank's  learning  as  well  as  I  can, 
(I  owe  m}"  father  thanks  for  a  little  grounding,  and  you,  I'm 
sure,  for  much  that  j^ou  have  taught  me,) — and  —  and  I  wish 
you  a  good-night,  Mr.  Esmond." 

And  with  this  she  dropped  a  stately  curts}^,  and,  taking 
her  candle,  went  awa^^  through  the  tapestr}^  door,  which  led 
to  her  apartments.  Esmond  stood  by  the  fireplace,  blankly 
staring  after  her.  Indeed,  he  scarce  seemed  to  see  until  she 
was  gone  ;  and  then  her  image  was  impressed  upon  him,  and 
remained  for  ever  fixed  upon  his  memorj'.  He  saw  her  retreat- 
ing, the  taper  lighting  up  her  marble  face,  her  scarlet  lip  quiver- 
ing, and  her  shining  golden  hair.  He  went  to  his  own  room, 
and  to  bed,  where  he  tried  to  read,  as  his  custom  was ;  but  he 
never  knew  what  he  was  reading  until  afterwards  he  remembered 
the  appearance  of  the  letters  of  the  book  (it  was  in  Montaigne's 
Essays),  and  the  events  of  the  day  passed  before  him  —  that  is, 
of  the  last  hour  of  the  da}' ;  for  as  for  the  morning,  and  the 
poor  milkmaid  3'onder,  he  never  so  much  as  once  thought. 
And  he  could  not  get  to  sleep  until  daylight,  and  woke  with  a 
violent  headache,  and  quite  unrefreshed. 

He  had  brought  the  contagion  with  him  from  the  "Three 
Castles  "  sure  enough,  and  was  presentl}'  laid  up  with  the  small- 
pox, which  spared  the  hall  no  more  than  it  did  the  cottage. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

I    HAVE    THE    SMALL-POX,    AND    PREPARE    TO   LEAVE    CASTLEVTOOD. 

When  Harry  Esmond  passed  through  the  crisis  of  that 
malad3',  and  returned  to  health  again,  he  found  that  little  Frank 
Esmond  had  also  suffered  and  rallied  after  the  disease,  and  the 
lad3'  his  mother  was  down  with  it,  wdth  a  couple  more  of  the 
household.  "  It  was  a  Providence,  for  which  we  all  ought  to  be 
thankful,"  Doctor  Tusher  said,  "  that  m3'  lad3^  and  her  son  were 
spared,  while  Death  carried  off"  the  poor  domestics  of  the  house  ; " 
and  rebuked  Harry  for  asking,  in  his  simple  wa3^.  For  which  we 
ought  to  be  thankful  —  that  the  servants  were  killed,  or  the 
gentlefolks  were  saved?  Nor  could  3'Oung  Esmond  agree  in 
the  Doctor's  vehement  protestations  to  m}'  lad3',  when  he  visited 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  71 

her  during  her  convalescence,  that  the  malady  had  not  in  the 
least  impaired  her  charms,  and  had  not  been  charl  enough  to 
injure  the  fair  features  of  the  Viscountess  of  Castlewood ; 
whereas,  in  spite  of  these  fine  speeches,  Harry  thought  that  her 
ladyship's  beauty  was  very  much  injured  by  the  small-pox. 
When  the  marks  of  the  disease  cleared  away,  tliey  did  not,  it  is 
true,  leave  furrows  or  scars  on  her  face  (except  one,  perhaps, 
on  her  forehead  over  her  left  eyebrow)  ;  but  the  delicacy  of  her 
rosy  color  and  complexion  was  gone  :  her  eyes  had  lost  their 
brilliancy,  her  hair  fell,  and  her  face  looked  older.  It  was  as 
if  a  coarse  hand  had  rubbed  off  the  delicate  tints  of  that  sweet 
picture,  and  brought  it,  as  one  has  seen  unskilful  painting- 
cleaners  do,  to  the  dead  color.  Also,  it  must  be  owned,  that  for 
a  year  or  two  after  the  malady,  her  ladyship's  nose  was  swollen 
and  redder. 

There  would  be  no  need  to  mention  these  trivialities,  but 
that  they  actually  influenced  many  lives,  as  trifles  will  in  the 
world,  where  a  gnat  often  plays  a  greater  part  than  an  ele- 
phant, and  a  mole-hill,  as  we  know  in  King  William's  case, 
can  upset  an  empire.  When  Tusher  in  his  courth'  way  (at 
which  Harry  Esmond  always  chafed  and  spoke  scornfully) 
vowed  and  protested  that  my  lady's  face  was  none  the  worse  — 
the  lad  broke  out  and  said,  "  It  ?>  worse :  and  my  mistress 
is  not  near  so  handsome  as  she  was  ;  "  on  which  poor  Lady 
Castlewood  gave  a  rueful  smile,  and  a  look  into  a  little  Venice 
glass  she  had,  which  showed  her,  I  suppose,  that  what  the 
stupid  boy  said  was  only  too  true,  for  she  turned  awa}^  from 
the  glass,  and  her  e3^es  filled  with  tears. 

The  sight  of  these  in  Esmond's  heart  always  created  a 
sort  of  rage  of  pity,  and  seeing  them  on  the  face  of  the  lady 
whom  he  loved  best,  the  .young  blunderer  sank  down  on  his 
knees,  and  besought  her  to  pardon  him,  saying  that  he  was 
a  fool  and  an  idiot,  that  he  was  a  brute  to  make  such  a 
speech,  he  who  had  caused  her  malady ;  and  Doctor  Tusher 
told  him  that  a  bear  he  was  indeed,  and  a  bear  he  would 
remain,  at  which  speech  poor  young  Esmond  was  so  dumb- 
stricken  that  he  did  not  even  growl. 

"  He  is  my  bear,  and  I  will  not  have  him  baited.  Doctor," 
ray  lady  said,  patting  her  hand  kindly  on  the  boy's  head,  as 
he  was  still  kneeling  at  her  feet.  "  How  3'our  hair  has  come 
oflf!     And  mine,  too,"  she  added  with  another  sigh. 

"  It  is  not  for  mj'self  that  I  cared,"  my  lady  said  to  Harry, 
when  the  parson  had  taken  his  leave;  ''but  am  I  ver}'  much 
changed?     Alas!  I  fear  'tis  too  true." 


72  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

"Madam,  j^ou  have  the  dearest,  and  kindest,  and  sweet- 
est face  in  the  world,  I  think,"  the  lad  said ;  and  indeed  he 
thought  and  thinks  so. 

"Will  my  lord  think  so  when  he  comes  back?"  the  lady 
asked  with  a  sigh,  and  another  look  at  her  Venice  glass. 
"  Suppose  he  should  think  as  you  do,  sir,  that  I  am  hid- 
eous—  3'es,  you  said  hideous  —  he  will  cease  to  care  forme. 
'Tis  all  men  care  for  in  women,  our  little  beaut}'.  Why  did 
he  select  me  from  among  my  sisters  ?  'Twas  only  for  that. 
We  reign  but  for  a  day  or  two :  and  be  sure  that  Vashti  knew 
Esther  was  coming." 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Esmond,  "  Ahasuerus  was  the  Grand 
Turk,  and  to  change  was  the  manner  of  his  country,  and 
according  to  his  law." 

"  You  are  all  Grand  Turks  for  that  matter,"  said  my  lady, 
"  or  would  be  if  you  could.  Come,  Frank,  come,  m}'  child. 
You  are  well,  praised  be  Heaven.  Tour  locks  are  not  thinned 
by  this  dreadful  small-pox  :  nor  your  poor  face  scarred  —  is  it, 
m}^  angel  ?  " 

Frank  began  to  shout  and  whimper  at  the  idea  of  such  a 
misfortune.  From  the  very  earliest  time  the  young  lord  had 
been  taught  to  admire  his  beauty  b}'  his  mother :  and  esteemed 
it  as  highly  as  smy  reigning  toast  valued  hers. 

One  da}',  as  he  himself  was  recovering  from  his  fever  and 
illness,  a  pang  of  something  like  shame  shot  across  young 
Esmond's  breast,  as  he  remembered  that  he  had  never  once 
during  his  illness  given  a  thought  to  the  poor  girl  at  the  smithy, 
whose  red  cheeks  but  a  month  ago  he  had  been  so  eager  to  see. 
Poor  Nancy  !  her  cheeks  had  shared  the  fate  of  roses,  and 
were  withered  now.  She  had  taken  the  illness  on  the  same 
day  with  Esmond  —  she  and  her  brother  were  both  dead  of 
the  small-pox,  and  buried  under  the  Castlewood  3'ew-trees. 
There  was  no  bright  face  looking  now  from  the  garden,  or  to 
cheer  the  old  smith  at  his  lonely  fireside.  Esmond  would  have 
liked  to  have  kissed  her  in  her  shroud  (like  the  lass  in 
Mr.  Prior's  pretty  poem) ;  but  she  rested  many  a  foot  below 
the  ground,  when  Esmond  after  his  malady  first  trod  on  it. 

Doctor  Tusher  brought  the  news  of  this  calamity,  about 
which  Harry  Esmond  longed  to  ask,  but  did  not  like.  He 
said  almost  the  whole  village  had  been  stricken  with  the 
pestilence ;  seventeen  persons  were  dead  of  it,  among  them 
mentioning  the  names  of  poor  Nanc}^  and  her  little  brother. 
He  did  not  fail  to  say  how  thankful  we  survivors  ought  to  be. 
It  being  this  man's  business  to  flatter  and  make  sermons,  it 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  73 

must  be  owned  he  was  most  industrious  in  it,  and  was  doing 
the  one  or  the  otlier  all  da}'. 

And  so  Nancy  was  gone ;  and  Harry  Esmond  blushed  that 
he  had  not  a  single  tear  for  her,  and  fell  to  composing  an 
eleg3'  in  Latin  verses  over  the  rustic  little  beauty.  He  bade 
the  dryads  mourn  and  the  river-nymphs  deplore  her.  As  her 
father  followed  the  calling  of  Vulcan,  he  said  tiiat  sureh'  she 
was  like  a  daughter  of  Venus,  though  Sievewright's  wife  was 
an  ugly  shrew,  as  he  remembered  to  have  heard  afterwards. 
He  made  a  long  face,  but,  in  truth,  felt  scarcely  more  sorrow- 
ful than  a  mute  at  a  funeral.  These  first  passions  of  men  and 
women  are  mostlj'  abortive ;  and  are  dead  almost  before  the}' 
are  born.  Esmond  could  repeat,  to  his  last  da}',  some  of 
the  doggerel  lines  in  which  his  muse  bewailed  his  pretty  lass ; 
not  without  shame  to  remember  how  bad  the  verses  were,  and 
how  good  he  thought  them ;  how  false  the  grief,  and  yet  how 
he  was  rather  proud  of  it.  'Tis  an  error,  surely,  to  talk  of 
the  simplicity  of  youth.  I  think  no  persons  are  more  hypo- 
critical, and  have  a  more  affected  behavior  to  one  another, 
than  the  young.  They  deceive  themselves  and  each  other 
with  artifices  that  do  not  impose  upon  men  of  the  world ;  and 
so  we  get  to  understand  truth  better,  and  grow  simpler  as  we 
grow  older. 

When  my  lady  heard  of  the  fate  which  had  befallen  poor 
Nancy,  she  said  nothing  so  long  as  Tusher  was  by,  but  when 
he  was  gone,  she  took  Harry  Esmond's  hand  and  said  — 

"Harry,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  those  cruel  words  I  used 
on  the  night  you  were  taken  ill.  I  am  shocked  at  the  fate 
of  the  poor  creature,  and  am  sure  that  nothing  had  hap- 
pened of  that  with  which,  in  my  anger,  1  charged  you.  And 
the  very  first  day  we  go  out,  you  must  take  me  to  the  black- 
smith, and  we  must  see  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  to  console 
the  poor  old  man.  Poor  man  !  to  lose  both  his  children  !  What 
should  I  do  without  mine  ?  " 

And  this  was,  indeed,  the  very  first  walk  which  my  lady 
took,  leaning  on  Esmond's  arm,  after  her  illness.  But  her  visit 
brought  no  consolation  to  the  old  father ;  and  he  showed  no 
softness,  or  desire  to  speak.  "  The  Lord  gave  and  took  away," 
he  said  ;  and  he  knew  what  His  servant's  duty  was.  He  wanted 
for  nothing  —  less  now  than  ever  before,  as  there  were  fewer 
mouths  to  feed.  He  wished  her  ladyship  and  Master  Esmond 
good  morning  —  he  had  grown  tall  in  his  illness,  and  was  but 
very  little  marked  ;  and  with  this,  and  a  surly  bow,  he  went  in 
from  the  smithy  to  the  house,  leaving  my  lady,  somewhat  silenced 


74  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENKY  ESMOND. 

and  shamefaced,  at  the  door.  He  had  a  handsome  stone  put 
up  for  his  two  children,  which  ma}^  be  seen  in  Castlewood 
churchyard  to  this  ver}^  da}^ ;  and  before  a  year  was  out  his 
own  name  was  upon  the  stone.  In  the  presence  of  Death,  that 
sovereign  ruler,  a  woman's  coquetry  is  scared  ;  and  her  jealousy 
will  hardly  pass  the  boundaries  of  that  grim  kingdom.  'Tis 
entirely  of  the  earth,  that  passion,  and  expires  in  the  cold  blue 
air,  beyond  our  sphere. 

At  length,  when  the  danger  was  quite  over,  it  was  announced 
that  my  lord  and  his  daughter  would  return.  Esmond  well 
remembered  the  da}^  The  lad}"  his  mistress  was  in  a  flurry  of 
fear  :  before  my  lord  came,  she  went  into  her  room,  and  returned 
from  it  with  reddened  cheeks.  Her  fate  was  about  to  be 
decided.  Her  beauty  was  gone  —  was  her  reign,  too,  over? 
A  minute  would  say.  My  lord  came  riding  over  the  bridge  — 
he  could  be  seen  from  the  great  window,  clad  in  scarlet,  and 
mounted  on  his  gray  hackney  —  his  little  daughter  ambled  by 
him  in  a  bright  riding-dress  of  blue,  on  a  shining  chestnut  horse. 
M}'  lady  leaned  against  the  great  mantel-piece,  looking  on,  with 
one  hand  on  her  heart  —  she  seemed  onl}"  the  more  pale  for 
those  red  marks  on  either  cheek.  She  put  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes,  and  withdrew  it,  laughing  hysterically  —  the  cloth 
was  quite  red  with  the  rouge  when  she  took  it  awa}- .  She  ran 
to  her  room  again,  and  came  back  with  pale  cheeks  and  red 
eyes  —  her  son  in  her  hand  —  just  as  my  lord  entered,  accom- 
panied b}^  young  Esmond,  who  had  gone  out  to  meet  his 
protector,  and  to  hold  his  stirrup  as  he  descended  from  horse- 
back. 

"What,  Harry,  boy!"  m}"  lord  said,  good-naturedly,  "you 
look  as  gaunt  as  a  greyhound.  The  small-pox  hasn't  improved 
3'our  beauty,  and  your  side  of  the  house  hadn't  never  too  much 
of  it— ho, 'ho!" 

And  he  laughed,  and  sprang  to  the  ground  with  no  small 
agility,  looking  handsome  and  red,  with  a  jolly  face  and  brown 
hair,  like  a  Beef-eater ;  Esmond  kneeling  again,  as  soon  as  his 
patron  had  descended,"  performed  his  homage,  and  then  went 
to  greet  the  little  Beatrix,  and  help  her  from  her  horse. 

"Fie!  how  yellow  3-ou  look,"  she  said;  "and  there  are 
one,  two,  red  holes  in  your  face  ;  "  which,  indeed,  was  very  true  ; 
Harrj'  Esmond's  harsh  countenance  bearing,  as  long  as  it  con- 
tinued to  be  a  human  face,  the  marks  of  the  disease. 

My  lord  laughed  again,  in  high  good-humor. 

"D it!"  said  he,  with  one  of  his  usual  oaths,  "the 

little  slut  sees  everything.    She  saw  the  Dowager's  paint  t'other 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  75 

da}^  and  asked  her  why  she  wore  that  red  stuff — didn't  you, 
Trix  ?  and  the  Tower ;  and  St.  James's  ;  and  the  play  ;  and 
the  Prince  George,  and  the  Princess  Anne  —  didn't  you, 
Trix?" 

"  The}^  are  both  very  fat,  and  smelt  of  brandy,"  the  child 
said. 

Papa  roared  with  laughing. 

"  BrandjM "  he  said.  '^And  how  do  you  know,  Miss 
Pert?" 

"Because  your  lordship  smells  of  it  after  supper,  when  I 
embrace  you  before  you  go  to  bed,"  said  the  young  lady,  who, 
'xdeed,  was  as  pert  as  her  father  said,  and  looked  as  beautiful 
a  ]ittle  gii>sy  as  eyes  ever  gazed  on. 

"  And  now  for  my  lad}',"  said  my  lord,  going  up  the  stairs, 
and  passing  under  the  tapestry  curtain  that  hung  before  the 
drawing-room  door.  Esmond  remembered  that  noble  figure, 
handsomeh'  arra3'ed  in  scarlet.  Within  the  last  few  months  he 
himself  had  grown  from  a  bo}'  to  be  a  man,  and  with  his  figure 
his  thoughts  had  shot  up,  and  grown  manly. 

My  lady's  countenance,  of  which  Harry  Esmond  was  accus- 
tomed to  watch  the  changes,  and  with  a  solicitous  affection  to 
note  and  interpret  the  signs  of  gladness  or  care,  wore  a  sad 
and  depressed  look  for  many  weeks  after  her  lord's  return : 
during  which  it  seemed  as  if,  b}'  caresses  and  entreaties,  she 
strove  to  win  him  back  from  some  ill  humor  he  had,  and  which 
he  did  not  choose  to  throw  off.  In  her  eagerness  to  please  him 
she  practised  a  hundred  of  those  arts  which  had  formerly 
charmed  him,  but  which  seemed  now  to  have  lost  their  potency. 
Her  songs  did  not  amuse  him  ;  and  she  hushed  them  and  the 
children  when  in  his  presence.  My  lord  sat  silent  at  his 
dinner,  drinking  greatly,  his  ladj^  opposite  to  him,  looking 
furtively  at  his  face,  though  also  speechless.  Her  silence 
anno3'ed  him  as  much  as  her  speech  ;  and  he  would  peevishly, 
and  with  an  oath,  ask  her  wh}'  she  held  her  tongue  and  looked 
so  glum ;  or  he  would  rough!}'  check  her  when  speaking,  and 
bid  her  not  talk  nonsense.  It  seemed  as  if,  since  his  return, 
nothing  she  could  do  or  sa}'  could  please  him. 

When  a  master  and  mistress  are  at  strife  in  a  house,  the 
subordinates  in  the  family  take  the  one  side  or  the  other.  Harry 
Esmond  stood  in  so  great  fear  of  my  lord,  that  he  would  run  a 
league  barefoot  to  do  a  message  for  him ;  but  his  attachment 
for  Lady  Esmond  was  such  a  passion  of  grateful  regard,  that 
to  spare  her  a  grief,  or  to  do  her  a  service,  he  would  have  given 
his  life  daily :  and  it  was  by  the  very  depth  and  intensity  of 


76  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

this  regard  that  he  began  to  divine  how  unhappy  his  adored 
lady's  life  was,  and  that  a  secret  care  (for  she  never  spoke  of 
her  anxieties)  was  weighing  upon  her. 

Can  an}'  one,  who  has  passed  through  the  world  and  watched 
the  nature  of  men  and  women  there,  doubt  what  had  befallen 
her?  I  have  seen,  to  be  sure,  some  people  carry  down  with 
them  into  old  age  the  actual  bloom  of  their  3'outhfLil  love,  and 
I  know  that  Mr.  Thomas  Parr  lived  to  be  a  hundred  and  sixty 
3'ears  old.  But,  for  all  that,  threescore  and  ten  is  the  age  of 
men,  and  few  get  be^'ond  it ;  and  'tis  certain  that  a  man  who 
marries  for  mere  beaux  yeux^  as  m}^  lord  did,  considers  this  part 
of  the  contract  at  an  end  when  the  woman  ceases  to  fuhll  hers, 
and  his  love  does  not  survive  her  beaut}'.  I  know  'tis  often 
otherwise,  I  sa}' ;  and  can  think  (as  most  men  in  their  own 
experience  may)  of  many  a  house,  where,  lighted  In  earlj'  years, 
the  sainted  lamp  of  love  hath  never  been  extinguished  ;  but  so 
there  is  Mr.  Parr,  and  so  there  is  the  great  giant  at  the  fair 
that  is  eight  feet  high  —  exceptions  to  men  —  and  that  poor 
lamp  whereof  I  speak,  that  lights  at  first  the  nuptial  chamber, 
is  extinguished  by  a  hundred  winds  and  draughts  down  the 
chimney,  or  sputters  out  for  want  of  feeding.  And  then  —  and 
then  it  is  Chloe,  in  the  dark,  stark  awake,  and  Strephon  snoring 
unheeding  ;  or  vice  iwrsa,  'tis  poor  Strephon  that  has  married  a 
heartless  jilt,  and  awoke  out  of  that  absurd  vision  of  conjugal 
felicity,  which  was  to  last  for  ever,  and  is  over  like  any  other 
dream.  One  and  other  has  made  his  bed,  and  so  must  lie  in 
it,  until  that  final  day  when  life  ends,  and  they  sleep  separate. 

About  this  time  voung  Esmond,  who  had  a  knack  of  string- 
ing verses,  turned  some  of  Ovid's  Epistles  into  rhymes,  and 
brought  them  to  his  lad}'  for  her  delectation.  .  Those  which 
treated  of  forsaken  women  touched  her  immensely,  Harry  re- 
marked ;  and  when  Gi^none  called  after  Paris,  and  Medea  bade 
Jason  come  back  again,  the  lad}'  of  Castlewood  sighed,  and 
said  she  thought  that  part  of  the  verses  was  the  most  pleasing. 
Indeed,  she  would  have  chopped  up  the  Dean,  her  old  father, 
in  order  to  bring  her  husband  back  again.  But  her  beautiful 
Jason  was  gone,  as  beautiful  Jasons  will  go,  and  the  poor 
enchantress  had  never  a  spell  to  keep  him. 

My  lord  was  only  sulky  as  long  as  his  wife's  anxious  face  or 
behavior  seemed  to  upbraid  him.  When  she  had  got  to  master 
these,  and  to  show  an  outwardly  cheerful  countenance  and 
behavior,  her  husband's  good-humor  returned  partially,  and  he 
swore  and  stormed  no  longer  at  dinner,  but  laughed  sometimes, 
and  yawned  unrestrainedly  ;  absenting  himself  often  from  home, 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  77 

inviting  more  company  thither,  passing  the  greater  part  of  his 
days  in  the  hunting- field,  or  over  the  bottle  as  before  ;  but  witli 
this  difference,  that  the  poor  wife  could  no  longer  see  now,  as 
she  had  done  formerly,  the  light  of  love  kindled  in  his  eyes. 
He  was  with  her,  but  that  flame  was  out :  and  that  once  welcome 
beacon  no  more  shone  there. 

What  were  this  lady's  feelings  when  forced  to  admit  the 
truth  whereof  her  foreboding  glass  had  given  her  only  too  true 
warning,  that  with  her  beauty  her  reign  had  ended,  and  the  da^'s 
of  her  love  were  over?  What  does  a  seaman  do  in  a  storm  if 
mast  and  rudder  are  carried  away?  He  ships  a  jurymast,  and 
steers  as  he  best  can  with  an  oar.  What  happens  if  your  roof 
falls  in  a  tempest?  After  the  first  stun  of  the  calamity  the 
sufferer  starts  up,  gropes  around  to  see  that  the  cliildren  are 
safe,  and  puts  them  under  a  shed  out  of  the  rain.  If  the  palace 
burns  down,  3'ou  take  shelter  in  the  barn.  What  man's  life  is 
not  overtaken  b}'  one  or  more  of  these  tornadoes  that  send  us 
out  of  the  course,  and  fling  us  on  rocks  to  shelter  as  best  we 
may  ? 

When  Lady  Castlewood  found  that  her  great  ship  had  gone 
down,  she  began  as  best  she  might,  after  she  had  rallied  from 
the  effects  of  the  loss,  to  put  out  small  ventures  of  happiness  ; 
and  hope  for  little  gains  and  returns,  as  a  merchant  on  'Change, 
indocilis  pauperiem  pati^  having  lost  his  thousands,  embarks  a 
few  guineas  upon  the  next  ship.  She  laid  out  her  all  upon  her 
children,  indulging  them  beyond  all  measure,  as  was  inevitable 
with  one  of  her  kindness  of  disposition  ;  giving  all  her  thoughts 
to  their  welfare  —  learning,  that  she  might  teach  them;  and 
improving  her  own  man}^  natural  gifts  and  feminine  accomplish- 
ments, that  she  might  impart  them  to  her  young  ones.  To  be 
doing  good  for  some  one  else,  is  the  life  of  most  good  women. 
They  are  exuberant  of  kindness,  as  it  were,  and  must  impart  it 
to  some  one.  She  made  herself  a  good  scholar  of  French, 
Italian,  and  Latin,  having  been  grounded  in  these  b}-  her  father 
in  her  youth  ;  hiding  these  gifts  from  her  husband  out  of  fear, 
perhaps,  that  they  should  offend  him,  for  m}'  lord  was  no  book- 
man—  pish'd  and  psha'd  at  the  notion  of  learned  ladies,  and 
would  have  been  angry  that  his  wife  could  construe  out  of  a 
Latin  book  of  which  he  could  scarce  understand  two  words. 
Young  Esmond  was  usher,  or  house  tutor,  under  her  or  over 
her,  as  it  might  happen.  During  my  lord's  many  absences, 
these  school-da3"s  would  go"  on  uninterruptedly^ :  the  mother  and 
daughter  learning  with  surprising  quickness  ;  the  latter  by  fits 
and  starts  only,  and  as  suited  her  wayward  humor.     As  for  the 


78  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

little  lord,  it  must  be  owned  that  he  took  after  his  father  in 
the  roatter  of  learning —  liked  marbles  and  pla}',  and  the  great 
horse  and  the  little  one  which  his  father  brought  him,  and  on 
which  he  took  him  out  a-hunting,  a  great  deal  better  than  Cor- 
derius  and  Lil}' ;  marshalled  the  village  bo3^s,  and  had  a  little 
court  of  them,  already  flogging  them,  and  domineering  over 
them  with  a  fine  imperious  spirit,  that  made  his  father  laugh 
when  he  beheld  it,  and  his  mother  fondly  warn  him.  The  cook 
had  a  son,  the  woodman  had  two,  the  big  lad  at  the  porter's 
lodge  took  his  cuffs  and  his  orders.  Doctor  Tusher  said  he 
was  a  young  nobleman  of  gallant  spirit ;  and  Harry  Esmond, 
who  was  his  tutor,  and  eight  j^ears  his  little  lordship's  senior, 
had  hard  work  sometimes  to  keep  his  own  temper,  and  hold  his 
authority  over  his  rebellious  little  chief  and  kinsman. 

In  a  couple  of  years  after  that  calamity  had  befallen  which 
had  robbed  Lad}^  Castlewood  of  a  little  —  a  verj'  little  —  of  her 
beauty,  and  her  careless  husband's  heart  (if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  my  lady  had  found  not  onl}'  that  her  reign  was  over,  but 
that  her  successor  was  appointed,  a  Princess  of  a  noble  house 
in  Drury  Lane  somewhere,  who  was  installed  and  visited  by  my 
lord  at  the  town  eight  miles  off — pudet  hmc  opjwohria  dicere 
nobis)  —  a  great  change  had  taken  place  in  her  mind,  which,  by 
struggles  only  known  to  herself,  at  least  never  mentioned  to 
any  one,  and  unsuspected  by  the  person  who  caused  the  pain 
she  endured  —  had  been  schooled  into  such  a  condition  as  she 
could  not  A^ery  likely  have  imagined  possible  a  score  of  months 
since,  before  her  misfortunes  had  begun. 

She  had  oldened  in  that  time  as  people  do  who  suffer  silently 
great  mental  pain ;  and  learned  much  that  she  had  never 
suspected  before.  She  was  taught  by  that  bitter  teacher  Mis- 
fortune. A  child  the  mother  of  other  children,  but  two  years 
back  her  lord  was  a  god  to  her ;  his  words  her  law  ;  his  smile 
her  sunshine  ;  his  laz}^  commonplaces  listened  to  eagerlj",  as  if 
they  were  words  of  wisdom  —  all  his  wishes  and  freaks  obe^'ed 
with  a  servile  devotion.  She  had  been  my  lord's  chief  slave 
and  blind  worshipper.  Some  women  bear  farther  than  this, 
and  submit  not  only  to  neglect  but  to  unfaithfulness  too  —  but 
here  this  lady's  allegiance  had  failed  her.  Her  spirit  rebelled, 
and  disowned  an3'  more  obedience.  First  she  had  to  bear  in 
secret  the  passion  of  losing  the  adored  object ;  then  to  get 
further  initiation,  and  to  find  this  worshipped  being  was  but  a 
clums}'  idol :  then  to  admit  the  silent  truth,  that  it  was  she  was 
superior,  and  not  the  monarch  her  master :  that  she  had  thoughts 
which  his  brains  could  never  master,  and  was  the  better  of  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND.  79 

two  ;  quite  separate  from  my  lord  although  tied  to  him,  and 
bound,  as  almost  all  people  (save  a  very  happ}^  few),  to  work 
all  her  life  alone.  My  lord  sat  in  his  chair,  laughing  his  laugh, 
cracking  his  joke,  his  face  flushing  with  wine  —  ray  lady  in  her 
place  over  against  him  —  he  never  suspecting  that  his  superior 
was  there,  in  the  calm  resigned  ladj^  cold  of  manner,  with  down- 
cast e^'es.     When  he  was  merry  in  his  cups,  he  would  make 

jokes  about  her  coldness,  and,  "  D it,  now  my  lady  is  gone, 

we  will  have  t'other  bottle,"  he  would  say.  He  was  frank 
enough  in  telling  his  thoughts,  such  as  they  were.  There  was 
little  mystery  about  my  lord's  w^ords  or  actions.  His  Fair 
Rosamond  did  not  live  in  a  LabjTinth,  like  the  lady  of  Mr. 
Addison's  opera,  but  paraded  with  painted  cheeks  and  a  tipsy 
retinue  in  the  country  town.  Had  she  a  mind  to  be  revenged, 
Lady  Castlewood  could  have  found  the  wa}^  to  her  rival's  house 
easily  enough ;  and,  if  she  had  come  with  bowl  and  dagger, 
would  have  been  routed  off  the  ground  by  the  en  em}'  with  a 
volley  of  Billingsgate,  which  the  fair  person  always  kept  by 
her.  - 

Meanwhile,  it  has  been  said,  that  for  Harry  Esmond  his 
benefactress's  sweet  face  had  lost  none  of  its  charms.  It  had 
alwa^'s  the  kindest  of  looks  and  smiles  for  him  —  smiles,  not 
so  gay  and  ;  rtless  perhaps  as  those  which  Lady  Castlewood 
had  formerly  worn,  when,  a  child  herself,  playing  with  her 
children,  her  husband's  pleasure  and  authority  were  all  she 
thought  of;  but  out  of  her  griefs  and  cares,  as  will  happen  I 
think  when  these  trials  fall  upon  a  kindly  heart,  and  are  not  too 
unbearable,  grew  up  a  number  of  thoughts  and  excellences 
which  had  never  come  into  existence,  had  not  her  sorrow  and 
misfortunes  engendered  them.  Sure,  occasion  is  the  father  of 
most  that  is  good  in  us.  As  you  have  seen  the  awkward 
fingers  and  clums}^  tools  of  a  prisoner  cut  and  fashion  the  most 
delicate  little  pieces  of  carved  work  ;  or  achieve  the  most  pro- 
digious underground  labors,  and  cut  through  walls  of  masonry, 
and  saw  iron  bars  and  fetters  ;  'tis  misfortune  that  awakens 
ingenuit}',  or  fortitude,  or  endurance,  in  hearts  where  these 
qualities  had  never  come  to  life  but  for  the  circumstance  which 
gave  them  a  being. 

"  'Twas  after  Jason  left  her,  no  doubt,"  Lady  Castlewood 
once  said  with  one  of  her  smiles  to  young  Esmond  (who  was 
reading  to  her  a  version  of  certain  lines  out  of  Euripides),  "  that 
Medea  became  a  learned  woman  and  a  great  enchantress." 

*'  And  she  could  conjure  the  stars  out  of  heaven,"  the  3'oung 
tutor  added,  "  but  she  could  not  bring  Jason  back  again." 


80  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  asked  my  lady,  ver}^  ^iigry. 

"  Indeed  I  mean  nothing,"  said  the  other,  "  save  what  I've 
read  in  books.  What  should  I  know  about  such  matters?  I 
have  seen  no  woman  save  you  and  little  Beatrix,  and  the  par- 
son's wife  and  my  late  mistress,  and  your  ladyship's  woman 
here." 

"  The  men  who  wrote  your  books,"  says  my  lady,  "your 
Horaces,  and  Ovids,  and  Virgils,  as  far  as  I  know  of  them,  all 
thought  ill  of  us,  as  all  the  heroes  they  wrote  about  used  us 
basely.  We  were  bred  to  be  slaves  alwa3'S ;  and  even  of  our 
own  times,  as  you  are  still  the  only  lawgivers,  I  think  our  ser- 
mons seem  to  say  that  the  best  woman  is  she  who  bears  her 
master's  chains  most  gracefully.  'Tis  a  pit\'  there  are  no  nun- 
neries permitted  by  our  church  :  Beatrix  and  I  would  fl\'  to  one, 
and  end  our  days  in  peace  there  away  from  you." 

"  And  is  there  no  slavery  in  a  convent?"  saj's  Esmond. 

"At  least  if  women  are  slaves  there,  no  one  sees  them," 
answered  the  lad3\  "  They  don't  work  in  street  gangs  with 
the  public  to  jeer  them :  and  if  they  suffer,  suffer  in  private. 
Here  comes  my  lord  home  from  hunting.  Take  away  the  books. 
My  lord  does  not  love  to  see  them.  Lessons  are  over  for 
to-day,  Mr.  Tutor."  And  with  a  curtsy  and  a  smile  she  would 
end  this  sort  of  colloquy. 

Indeed  "  Mr.  Tutor,"  as  my  lad}^  called  Esmond,  had  now 
business  enough  on  his  hands  in  Castlewood  House.  He  had 
three  pupils,  his  lady  and  her  two  children,  at  whose  lessons 
she  would  always  be  present;  besides  writing  my  lord's  letters, 
and  arranging  his  accompts  for  him  —  when  these  could  be  got 
from  Esmond's  indolent  patron. 

Of  the  pupils  the  two  young  people  were  but  lazy  scholars, 
and  as  my  ladj^  would  admit  no  discipline  such  as  was  then  in 
use,  my  lord's  son  only  learned  what  he  liked,  which  was  but 
little,  and  never  to  his  life's  end  could  be  got  to  construe  more 
than  six  lines  of  Virgil.  Mistress  Beatrix  chattered  French 
prettil}^  from  a  very  early  age  ;  and  sang  sweetly,  but  this  was 
from  her  mother's  teaching  —  not  Harry  Esmond's,  who  could 
scarce  distinguish  between  "Green  Sleeves"  and  "  Lillibul- 
lero  ;  "  although  he  had  no  greater  delight  in  life  than  to  hear 
the  ladies  sing.  He  sees  them  now  (will  he  ever  forget  them  ?) 
as  they  used  to  sit  together  of  the  summer  evenings  —  the  two 
golden  heads  over  the  page  —  the  child's  little  hand,  and  the 
mother's  beating  the  time,  with  their  voices  rising  and  falling  in 
unison. 

But  if  the  children  were  careless,  'twas  a  wonder  how  eagerly 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  81 

the  mother  learnt  from  her  3'oung  tutor  —  and  taught  him  too. 
The  happiest  instinctive  facult}^  was  this  lady's  —  a  faculty  for 
discerning  latent  beauties  and  hidden  graces  of  books,  especially 
books  of  poetry,  as  in  a  walk  she  would  spy  out  field-flowers 
and  make  posies  of  them,  such  as  no  other  hand  could.  She 
was  a  critic,  not  b}'  reason  but  by  feeling ;  the  sweetest  com- 
mentator of  those  books  they  read  together ;  and  the  happiest 
hours  of  3'oung  Esmond's  life,  perhaps,  were  those  passed  in 
the  company  of  this  kind  mistress  and  her  children. 

These  happy  da3's  were  to  end  soon,  however;  and  it  was 
by  the  Lady  Castlewood's  own  decree  that  they  were  brought  to 
a  conclusion.  It  happened' about  Christmas-time,  Harry  Es- 
mond being  now  past  sixteen  years  of  age,  that  his  old  comrade, 
adversary,  and  friend,  Tom  Tusher,  returned  from  his  school  in 
London,  a  fair,  well-grown,  and  sturdy  lad,  who  was  about  to 
enter  college,  with  an  exhibition  from  his  school,  and  a  prospect 
of  after  promotion  in  the  church.  Tom  Tusher's  talk  was  of 
nothing  but  Cambridge  now  ;  and  the  bo^'s,  who  were  good 
friends,  examined  each  other  eagerly  about  their  progress  in 
books.  Tom  had  learned  some  Greek  and  Hebrew,  besides 
Latin,  in  which  he  was  pretty  well  skiUed,  and  also  had  given 
himself  to  mathematical  studies  under  his  father's  guidance,  who 
was  a  proficient  in  those  sciences,  of  which  Esmond  knew  noth- 
ing ;  nor  could  he  WTite  Latin  so  well  as  Tom,  though  he  could 
talk  it  better,  having  been  taught  by  his  dear  friend  the  Jesuit 
Father,  for  whose  memory  the  lad  ever  retained  the  warmest 
aff"ection,  reading  his  books,  keeping  his  sw^ords  clean  in  the 
little  crypt  where  the  Father  had  sliown  them  to  Esmond  on 
the  night  of  his  visit ;  and  often  of  a  night  sitting  in  the  chap- 
lain's room,  which  he  inhabited,  over  his  books,  his  verses,  and 
rubbish,  with  which  the  lad  occupied  himself,  he  would  look  up 
at  the  window,  thinking  he  wished  it  might  open  and  let  in  the 
good  Father.  He  had  come  and  passed  away  like  a  dream ; 
but  for  the  swords  and  books  Harry  might  almost  think  the 
Father  was  an  imagination  of  his  mind  —  and  for  two  letters 
which  had  come  to  him,  one  from  abroad,  full  of  advice  and 
aflTection,  another  soon  after  he  had  been  confirmed  by  the 
Bishop  of  Hexton,  in  which  Father  Holt  deplored  his  falling 
away.  But  Harry  Esmond  felt  so  confident  now  of  his  being  in 
the  right,  and  of  his  own  powers  as  a  casuist,  that  he  thought 
he  was  able  to  face  the  Father  himself  in  argument,  and  possibly 
convert  him. 

To  work  upon  the  faith  of  her  young  pupil,  Esmond's  kind 
mistress  sent  to  the  library  of  her  father  the  Dean,  who  had 


82  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

been  distinguished  in  the  disputes  of  the  late  king's  reign  ;  and, 
an  old  soldier  now,  had  hung  up  his  weapons  of  controversy. 
These  he  took  down  from  his  shelves  willingl}'  for  young  Es- 
mond, whom  he  benefited  by  his  own  personal  advice  and 
instruction.  It  did  not  require  much  persuasion  to  induce  the 
boy  to  worship  with  his  beloved  mistress.  And  the  good  old 
nonjuring  Dean  flattered  himself  with  a  conversion  which,  in 
truth,  was  owing  to  a  much  gentler  and  fairer  persuader. 

Under  her  ladyship's  kind  eyes  (my  lord's  being  sealed  in 
sleep  pretty  generall}'),  Esmond  read  many  volumes  of  the 
works  of  the  famous  British  Divines  of  the  last  age,  and  was 
familiar  with  Wake  and  Sherlock,  with  Stillingfleet  and  Patrick. 
His  mistress  never  tired  to  listen  or  to  read,  to  pursue  the  texts 
with  fond  comments,  to  urge  those  points  which  her  fancj^ 
dwelt  on  most,  or  her  reason  deemed  most  important.  Since 
the  death  of  her  father  the  Dean,  this  lady  hath  admitted  a  cer- 
tain latitude  of  theological  reading  which  her  orthodox  father 
would  never  have  allowed  ;  his  favorite  writers  appealing  more 
to  reason  and  antiquity  than  to  the  passions  or  imaginations 
of  their  readers,  so  that  the  works  of  Bishop  Taylor,  nay,  those 
of  Mr.  Baxter  and  Mr.  Law,  have  in  reality  found  more  favor 
with  my  Lady  Castlewood  than  the  severer  volumes  of  our  great 
English  schoolmen. 

In  later  life,  at  the  University,  Esmond  reopened  the  con- 
troversy, and  pursued  it  in  a  ver}^  different  manner,  when  his 
patrons  had  determined  for  him  that  he  was  to  embrace  the 
ecclesiastical  life.  But  though  his  mistress's  heart  was  in  this 
calling,  his  own  never  was  much.  After  that  first  fervor  of 
simple  devotion,  which  his  beloved  Jesuit  priest  had  inspired  in 
him,  speculative  theology  took  but  little  hold  upon  the  young 
man's  mind.  When  his  early  credulit}'  was  disturbed,  and  his 
saints  and  virgins  taken  out  of  his  worship,  to  rank  little  higher 
than  the  divinities  of  Olympus,  his  belief  became  acquiescence 
rather  than  ardor ;  and  he  made  his  mind  up  to  assume  the 
cassock  and  bands,  as  another  man  does  to  wear  a  breastplate 
and  jack-boots,  or  to  mount  a  merchant's  desk,  for  a  livelihood, 
and  from  obedience  and  necessity,  rather  than  from  choice. 
There  were  scores  of  such  men  in  Mr.  Esmond's  time  at  the 
universities,  who  were  going  to  the  church  with  no  better  calling 
than  his. 

When  Thomas  Tusher*  was  gone,  a  feeling  of  no  small  de- 
'pression  and  disquiet  fell  upon  young  Esmond,  of  which,  though 
he  did  not  complain,  his  kind  mistress  must  have  divined  the 
cause  :  for  soon  after  she  showed  not  only  that  she  understood 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  83 

the  reason  of  Harry's  melancholy,  but  could  provide  a  remedy 
for  it.  Her  habit  was  thus  to  watch,  unobservedl}',  those  to 
whom  dut}'  or  affection  bound  her,  and  to  prevent  their  designs, 
or  to  fulfil  them,  when  she  had  the  power.  It  was  this  lady's 
disposition  to  think  kindnesses,  and  devise  silent  bounties  and 
to  scheme  benevolence,  for  those  about  her.  We  take  such 
goodness,  for  the  most  part,  as  if  it  was  our  due  ;  the  Marys 
who  bring  ointment  for  our  feet  get  but  little  thanks.  Some 
of  us  never  feel  this  devotion  at  all,  or  are  moved  b}'  it  to  grati- 
tude or  acknowledgment ;  others  only  recall  it  years  after, 
when  the  days  are  past  in  which  those  sweet  kindnesses  were 
spent  on  us,  and  we  offer  back  our  return  for  the  debt  by  a  poor 
tardy  payment  of  tears.  Then  forgotten  tones  of  love  recur  to 
us,  and  kind  glances  shine  out  of  the  past  —  oh  so  bright  and 
clear  !  —  oh  so  longed  after  !  —  because  the}'  are  out  of  reach  ; 
as  holida}'  music  from  withinside  a  prison  wall  - —  or  sunshine 
seen  through  the  bars ;  more  prized  because  unattainable  — 
more  bright  because  of  the  contrast  of  present  darkness  and 
solitude,  whence  there  is  no  escape. 

All  the  notice,  then,  which  Lad}'  Castlewood  seemed  to  take 
of  Harry  Esmond's  melanchol}',  upon  Tom  Tusher's  departure, 
was,  by  a  gayet}'  unusual  to  her,  to  attempt  to  dispel  his  gloom. 
She  made  his  three  scholars  (herself  being  the  chief  one)  more 
cheerful  than  ever  the}'  had  been  before,  and  more  docile,  too, 
all  of  them  learning  and  reading  much  more  than  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  do.  "  For  who  knows,"  said  the  lady,  "  what 
may  happen,  and  whether  we  may  be  able  to  keep  such  a 
learned  tutor  long  ?  " 

Frank  Esmond  said  he  for  his  part  did  not  want  to  learn 
any  more,  and  cousin  Harry  might  shut  up  his  book  whenever 
he  liked,  if  he  would  come  out  a-fishing ;  and  little  Beatrix  de- 
clared she  would  send  for  Tom  Tusher,  and  he  would  be  glad 
enough  to  come  to  Castlewood,  if  Harry  chose  to  go  away. 

At  last  comes  a  messenger  from  Winchester  one  day,  bearer 
of  a  letter,  with  a  great  black  seal,  from  the  Dean  there,  to  say 
that  his  sister  was  dead,  and  had  left  her  fortune  of  2,000/. 
among  her  six  nieces,  the  Dean's  daughters  ;  and  many  a  time 
since  has  Harry  Esmond  recalled  the  flushed  face  and  eager 
look  wherewith,  after  this  intelligence,  his  kind  lady  regarded 
him.  She  did  not  pretend  to  any  grief  about  the  deceased 
relative,  from  whom  she  and  her  family  had  been  many  years 
parted. 

When  my  lord  heard  of  the  news,  he  also  did  not  make  any 
very  long  face.     ' '  The  money  will  come  very  handy  to  furnish 


84  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

the  music-room  and  the  cellar,  which  is  getting  low,  and  buy 
your  lad3'ship  a  coach  and  a  couple  of  horses  that  will  do 
indifferent  to  ride  or  for  the  coach.  And,  Beatrix,  you  shall 
have  a  spinnet :  and,  Frank,  you  shall  have  a  little  horse  from 
Hexton  Fair ;  and,  Harrj^,  j'ou  shall  have  five  pounds  to  buy 
some  books,"  said  my  lord,  who  was  generous  with  his  own, 
and  indeed  with  other  folk's  money.  "  I  wish  3'our  aunt 
would  die  once  a  year,  Rachel ;  we  could  spend  your  money, 
and  all  your  sisters',  too." 

'^  I  have  but  one  aunt  —  and  —  and  I  have  another  use  for 
the  monej^  my  lord,"  ssljs  my  lady,  turning  ver}^  red. 

"Another  use,  my  dear;  and  what  do  you  know  about 
monej'?"  cries  my  lord.  "  And  what  the  devil  is  there  that  I 
don't  give  you  which  you  want !  " 

"I  intend  to  give  this  money  —  can't  you  fancv  how,  my 
lord?" 

M}^  lord  swore  one  of  his  large  oaths  that  he  did  not  know 
in  the  least  what  she  meant. 

"I  intend  it  for  Harry  Esmond  to  go  to  college.  Cousin 
Harry,"  says  my  lady,  "you  mustn't  sta}^  longer  in  this  dull 
place,  but  make  a  name  to  yourself,  and  for  us  too,  Hany." 

"D — n  it,  Harry's  well  enough  here,"  says  my  lord,  for  a 
moment  looking  rather  sulky. 

"Is  Harrj^  going  away?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  will 
go  away  ?  "  cry  out  Frank  and  Beatrix  at  one  breath. 

"  But  he  will  come  back :  and  this  will  always  be  his  home," 
cries  m}^  lad}^,  with  blue  eyes  looking  a  celestial  kindness : 
"  and  his  scholars  will  alwa3^s  love  him  ;  won't  they?" 

"  By  G — d,  Rachel,  you're  a  good  woman  !  "  says  my  lord, 
seizing  my  lady's  hand,  at  which  she  blushed  very  much,  and 
shrank  back,  putting  her  children  before  her.  "  I  wish  3'ou 
joy,  my  kinsman,"  he  continued,  giving  Harry  Esmond  a 
heart}'  slap  on  the  shoulder.  "I  won't  balk  your  luck.  Go 
to  Cambridge,  boy,  and  when  Tusher  dies  you  shall  have  the 
living  here,  if  you  are  not  better  provided  by  that  time.  We'll 
furnish  the  dining-room  and  bu}'  the  horses  another  3'ear.  I'll 
give  thee  a  nag  out  of  the  stable  :  take  any  one  except  my  hack 
and  the  bay  gelding  and  the  coach-horses  ;  and  God  speed  thee, 
my  boy !  " 

"  Have  the  sorrel,  Harr}' ;  'tis  a  good  one.  Father  saj^s  'tis 
the  best  in  the  stable,"  sa^'s  little  Frank,  clapping  his  hands, 
and  jumping  up.  "  Let's  come  and  see  him  in  the  stable." 
And  the  other,  in  his  delight  and  eagerness,  was  for  leaving 
the  room  that  instant  to  arrange  about  his  journey. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  85 

The  Lady  Castlewood  looked  after  him  with  sad  penetrating 
glances.  "He  wishes  to  be  gone  alread3",  my  lord,"  said  she 
to  her  husband. 

The  3'oang  man  hung  back  abashed.  "  Indeed,  I  would 
stay  for  ever,  if  your  ladj'ship  bade  me,"  he  said. 

"  And  thou  wouldst  be  a  fool  for  thj'  pains,  kinsman,"  said 
my  lord.  ""Tut,  tut,  man.  Go  and  see  the  world.  Sow  thy 
Iwild  oats  ;  and  take  the  best  luck  that  Fate  sends  thee.  I  wish 
'l  were  a  boy  again,  that  I  might  go  to  college,  and  taste  the 
Trumpington  ale." 

"  Ours,  indeed,  is  but  a  dull  home,"  cries  my  lady,  with  a 
little  of  sadness  and,  maybe,  of  satire,  in  her  voice  :  "an  old 
glum  house,  half  ruined,  and  the  rest  only  half  furnished  ;  a 
woman  and  two  children  are  but  poor  compan}^  for  men  that  are 
accustomed  to  better.  We  are  only  fit  to  be  your  worship's 
handmaids,  and  your  pleasures  must  of  necessity  lie  elsewhere 
than  at  home." 

"  Curse  me,  Rachel,  if  I  know  now  whether  thou  art  In 
earnest  or  not,"  said  my  lord. 

"  In  earnest,  my  lord  !  "  sa3's  she,  still  clinging  b}'  one  of 
her  children.  "  Is  there  much  subject  here  for  joke?"  And 
she  made  him  a  grand  curts\^,  and,  giving  a  stately  look  to 
Harry  Esmond,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Remember  ;  you  under- 
stand me,  though  he  does  not,"  she  left  the  room  with  her 
children. 

"  Since  she  found  out  that  confounded  Hexton  business,"  my 
lord  said  —  • '  and  be  hanged  to  them  that  told  her  !  —  she  has 
not  been  the  same  woman.  She,  who  used  to  be  as  humble  as 
a  milkmaid,  is  as  proud  as  a  princess,"  sa3^s  m}-  lord.  "  Take 
my  counsel,  Harr}-  Esmond,  and  keep  clear  of  women.  Since 
I  have  had  anything  to  do  with  the  jades,  they  have  given  me 
nothing  but  disgust.  I  had  a  wife  at  Tangier,  with  whom,  as 
she  couldn't  speak  a  word  of  mj^  language,  you'd  have  thought 
I  might  lead  a  quiet  life.  But  she  tried  to  poison  me,  because 
she  was  jealous  of  a  Jew  girl.  There  was  your  aunt,  for  aunt 
she  is  —  aunt  Jezebel,  a  pretty  life  3'our  father  led  with  her  ! 
and  here's  m}'  lady.  When  I  saw  her  on  a  pillion,  riding  behind 
the  Dean  her  father,  she  looked  and  was  such  a  baby,  that 
a  sixpenny  doll  might  have  pleased  her.  And  now  you  see 
what  she  is  —  hands  off,  highty-tighty,  high  and  might}^  an 
empress  couldn't  be  grander.  Pass  us  the  tankard,  Harry  my 
boy.  A  mug  of  beer  and  a  toast  at  morn,  sa^'s  my  host.  A 
toast  and  a  mug  of  beer  at  noon,  says  my  dear.  D — n  it,  Polly 
loves  a  mug  of  ale,  too,  and  laced  with  brandy,  by  Jove !  ** 


86  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEKRY  ESMOND. 

Indeed,  I  suppose  they  drank  it  together ;  for  mj-  lord  was 
often  thick  in  his  speech  at  mid-day  dinner ;  and  at  night  at 
supper,  speechless  altogether. 

Harry  Esmond's  departure  resolved  upon,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  Lady  Castlewood,  too,  rejoiced  to  lose  him ;  for  more  than 
once,  when  the  lad,  ashamed  perhaps  at  his  own  secret  eager- 
ness to  go  away  (at  an}^  rate  stricken  with  sadness  at  the  idea 
of  leaving  those  from  whom  he  had  received  so  many  proofs  of 
love  and  kindness  inestimable),  tried  to  express  to  his  mistress 
his  sense  of  gratitude  to  her,  and  his  sorrow  at  quitting  those 
who  had  so  sheltered  and  tended  a  nameless  and  houseless 
orphan.  Lady  Castlewood  cut  short  his  protests  of  love  and 
his  lamentations,  and  would  hear  of  no  grief,  but  only  look 
forward  to  Harry's  fame  and  prospects  in  Hfe.  "Our  little 
legacy  will  keep  you  for  four  3'ears  like  a  gentleman.  Heaven's 
Providence,  your  own  genius,  industry,  honor,  must  do  the  rest 
for  you.  Castlewood  will  always  be  a  home  for  you  ;  and  these 
children,  whom  you  have  taught  and  loved,  will  not  forget  to 
love  3'ou.  And,  Harry,"  said  she  (and  this  was  the  only  time 
when  she  spoke  with  a  tear  in  her  eye,  or  a  tremor  in  her  voice), 
"  it  may  happen  in  the  course  of  nature  that  I  shall  be  called 
away  from  them  :  and  their  father  —  and  —  and  thej^  will  need 
true  friends  and  protectors.  Promise  me  that  3'ou  will  be  true 
to  them  —  as  -^  as  I  think  1  have  been  to  3'ou  —  and  a  mother's 
fond  pra3"er  and  blessing  go  with  3'Ou." 

"So  help  me  God,  madam,  I  will,"  said  Harry  Esmond, 
falling  on  his  knees,  and  kissing  the  hand  of  his  dearest  mis- 
tress. "  If  you  will  have  me  sta3^  now,  I  will.  What  matters 
whether  or  no  I  make  m3^  wa3'  in  life,  or  whether  a  poor  bastard 
dies  as  unknown  as  he  is  now  ?  'Tis  enough  that  I  have  3'our 
love  and  kindness  surel3^ ;  and  to  make  you  happy  is  duty 
enough  for  me." 

"  Happ3^ !  "  sa3-s  she  ;  "  but  indeed  I  ought  to  be,  with  my 
children,  and  —  " 

"Not  happ3'!"  cried  Esmond  (for  he  knew  what  her  life 
was,  though  he  and  his  mistress  never  spoke  a  word  concerning 
it).  "If  not  happiness,  it  ma3^  be  ease.  Let  me  sta3^  and 
work  for  3^ou  —  let  me  stay  and  be  3'our  servant." 

"  Indeed,  you  are  best  awav,"  said  m3^  lad3',  laughing,  as 
she  put  her  hand  on  the  boy's  head  for  a  moment.  "  You  shall 
sta3^  in  no  such  dull  place.  You  shall  go  to  college  and  distin- 
guish 3^ourself  as  becomes  3'Our  name.  That  is  how  3"0U  shall 
please  me  best ;  and  —  and  if  m3"  children  want  3'ou,  or  I  want 
you,  you  shall  come  to  us  ;  and  I  know  we  may  count  on  you." 


Parting. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  87 

"May  heaven  forsake  me  if  you  maj^  not!''  Harrj^  said, 
getting  up  from  hiis  knee. 

"  And  m3'  knight  longs  for  a  dragon  this  instant  that  he  may 
fight,"  said  m}^  lady,  laughing;  which  speech  made  Harry  Es- 
mond start,  and  turn  red  ;  for  indeed  the  \ery  thought  was  in 
his  mind,  that  he  would  like  that  some  chance  should  immedi- 
ately happen  whereby  he  might  show  his  devotion.  And  it 
pleased  him  to  think  that  his  lady  had  called  him  "  her  knight," 
and  often  and  often  he  recalled  this  to  his  mind,  and  prayed 
that  he  might  be  her  true  knight,  too. 

My  lady's  bed-chamber  window  looked  out  over  the  country, 
and  you  could  see  from  it  the  purple  hills  beyond  Castlewood 
village,  the  green  common  betwixt  that  and  the  Hall,  and  the 
old  bridge  wliich  crossed  over  the  river.  When  Harry  Esmond 
went  away  for  Cambridge,  httle  Frank  ran  alongside  his  horse 
as  far  as  the  bridge,  and  there  Harry  stopped  for  a  moment, 
and  looked  back  at  the  house  where  the  best  part  of  his  life 
had  been  passed.  It  la}'  before  him  with  its  gra}'  familiar 
towers,  a  pinnacle  or  two  shining  in  the  sun,  the  buttresses  and 
terrace  walls  casting  great  blue  shades  on  the  grass.  And 
Harr}'  remembered,  all  his  life  after,  how  he  saw  his  mistress 
at  the  window  looking  out  on  him  in  a  white  robe,  the  little 
Beatrix's  chestnut  curls  resting  at  her  mother's  side.  Both 
waved  a  farewell  to  him,  and  little  Frank  sobbed  to  leave  him. 
Yes,  he  would  be  his  lad^-'s  true  knight,  he  vowed  in  his  heart ; 
he  waved  her  an  adieu  with  his  hat.  The  village  people  had 
Good-by  to  sa}^  to  him  too.  All  knew  that  Master  Harr}^  was 
going  to  college,  and  most  of  them  had  a  kind  word  and  a  look 
of  farewell.  I  do  not  stop  to  say  what  adventures  he  began  to 
imagine,  or  what  career  to  devise  for  himself  before  he  had 
ridden  three  miles  from  home.  He  had  not  read  Monsieur 
Galland's  ingenious  Arabian  tales  as  yet ;  but  be  sure  that 
there  are  other  folks  who  build  castles  in  the  air,  and  have  fine 
hopes,  and  kick  them  down  too,  besides  honest  Aluaschar. 


88  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

CHAPTER  X. 

t   GO   TO    CAMBRIDGE,    AND    DO    BUT   LITTLE    GOOD   THERE. 

My  lord,  who  said  be  should  like  to  revisit  the  old  haunts  of 
his  youth,  kindly  accompanied  Harry  Esmond  in  his  first  jour- 
ney to  Cambridge.  Their  road  lay  through  London,  where  m}^ 
Lord  Viscount  would  also  have  Harry  stay  a  few  da3^s  to  show 
him  the  pleasures  of  the  town  before  he  entered  upon  his  uni- 
versity studies,  and  whilst  here  Harry's  patron  conducted  the 
3'oung  man  to  my  Lady  Dowager's  house  at  Chelsey  near  Lon- 
don :  the  kind  lady  at  Castlewood  having  speciall}^  ordered  that 
the  young  gentleman  and  the  old  should  pay  a  respectful  visit 
in  that  quarter. 

Her  lad^'ship  the  Viscountess  Dowager  occupied  a  handsome 
new  house  in  Chelsey,  with  a  garden  behind  it,  and  facing  the 
river,  always  a  bright  and  animated  sight  with  its  swarms  of 
sailors,  barges,  and  wherries.  Harry  laughed  at  recognizing 
in  the  parlor  the  well-remembered  old  piece  of  Sir  Peter  Lely, 
wherein  his  father's  widow  was  represented  as  a  virgin  hun- 
tress, armed  with  a  gilt  bow-and-arrow,  and  encumbered  only 
with  that  small  quantity  of  drapery  which  it  would  seem  the 
virgins  in  King  Charles's  da}'  were  accustomed  to  wear. 

My  Lad}^  Dowager  had  left  off  this  peculiar  habit  of  huntress 
when  she  married.  But  though  she  was  now  considerably  past 
sixty  years  of  age,  I  believe  she  thought  that  airy  nymph  of  the 
picture  could  still  be  easily  recognized  in  the  venerable  person- 
age who  gave  an  audience  to  Harry  and  his  patron. 

She  received  the  .young  man  with  even  more  favor  than  she 
showed  to  the  elder,  for  she  chose  to  carr}"  on  the  conversation 
in  French,  in  which  my  Lord  Castlewood  was  no  great  pro- 
ficient, and  expressed  her  satisfaction  at  finding  that  Mr.  Es- 
mond could  speak  fluently  in  that  language.  "  'Twas  the  only 
one  fit  for  poUte  conversation,"  she  condescended  to  say,  "  and 
suitable  to  persons  of  high  breeding." 

M}^  lord  laughed  afterwards,  as  the  gentlemen  went  away,  at 
his  kinswoman's  behavior.  He  said  he  remembered  the  time 
when  she  could  speak  English  fast  enough,  and  joked  in  his 
J0II3'  way  at  the  loss  he  had  had  of  such  a  lovel}"  wife  as  that. 

My  Lady  Viscountess  deigned*  to  ask  his  lordship  news  of 
his  wife  and  children ;    she  had  heard  that  Lady  Castlewood 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  89 

had  had  the  small-pox ;  she  hoped  she  was  not  so  very  much 
disfigured  as  people  said. 

At  this  remark  about  his  wife's  malady,  my  Lord  Viscount 
winced  and  turned  red ;  but  the  Dowager,  in  speaking  of  the 
disfigurement  of  the  young  lady,  turned  to  her  looking-glass 
and  examined  her  old  wrinkled  countenance  in  it  with  such  a 
grin  of  satisfaction,  that  it  was  all  her  guests  could  do  to  refrain 
from  laughing  in  her  ancient  face. 

She  asked  Harry  what  his  profession  was  to  be ;  and  my 
lord,  saying  that  the  lad  was  to  take  orders,  and  have  the 
living  of  Castlewood  when  old  Dr.  Tusher  vacated  it,  she  did 
not  seem  to  show  any  particular  anger  at  the  notion  of  Harry's 
becoming  a  Church  of  England  clergyman,  nay,  was  rather 
glad  than  otherwise,  that  the  youth  should  be  so  provided  for. 
She  bade  Mr.  Esmond  not  to  forget  to  pay  her  a  visit  whenever 
he  passed  through  London,  and  carried  her  graciousness  so 
far  as  to  send  a  purse  with  twenty  guineas  for  him,  to  the 
tavern  at  which  my  lord  put  up  (the  "  Greyhound,"  in  Charing 
Cross)  ;  and,  along  with  this  welcome  gift  for  her  kinsman, 
she  sent  a  little  doll  for  a  present  to  my  lord's  little  daughter 
Beatrix,  who  was  growing  beyond  the  age  of  dolls  by  this  time, 
and  was  as  tall  almost  as  her  venerable  relative. 

After  seeing  the  town,  and  going  to  the  plays,  my  Lord 
Castlewood  and  Esmond  rode  together  to  Cambridge,  spending 
two  pleasant  daj'S  upon  the  journey.  Those  rapid  new  coaches 
were  not  established,  as  3'et,  that  performed  the  whole  journey 
between  London  and  the  Universit}'  in  a  single  day  ;  however, 
the  road  was  pleasant  and  short  enough  to  Hany  Esmond,  and 
he  alwa3'S  gratefully  remembered  that  happj'  holiday  which  his 
kind  patron  gave  him. 

Mr.  Esmond  was  entered  a  pensioner  of  Trinity  College  in 
Cambridge,  to  which  famous  college  my  lord  had  also  in  his 
3'outh  belonged.  Dr.  Montague  was  master  at  this  time,  and 
received  vny  Lord  Viscount  with  great  politeness  :  so  did  Mr. 
Bridge,  who  was  appointed  to  be  Harr^^'s  tutor.  Tom  Tusher, 
who  was  of  Emanuel  College,  and  was  bj'  this  time  a  junior 
soph,  came  to  wait  upon  m}^  lord,  and  to  take  Harry  under  his 
protection  ;  and  comfortable  rooms  being  provided  for  him  in 
the  great  court  close  by  the  gate,  and  near  to  the  famous  Mr. 
Newton's  lodgings,  Harry's  patron  took  leave  of  him  with 
many  kind  words  and  blessings,  and  an  admonition  to  him  to 
behave  better  at  the  Universit}"  than  my  lord  himself  had  ever 
done. 

'Tis  needless  in  these  memoirs  to  go  at  an}'  length  into  the 


90  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

particulars  of  Harry  Esmond's  college  career.  It  was  like  that 
of  a  hundred  3'oung  gentlemen  of  that  day.  But  he  had  the 
ill  fortune  to  be  older  by  a  couple  of  years  than  most  of  his 
fellow-students  ;  and  b}"  his  previous  solitary  mode  of  bringing 
up,  the  circumstances  of  his  life,  and  the  peculiar  thoughtful- 
ness  and  melancholy  that  had  naturally  engendered,  he  was, 
in  a  great  measure,  cut  off  from  the  society  of  comrades  who 
were  much  younger  and  higher-spirited  than  he.  His  tutor, 
who  had  bowed  down  to  the  ground,  as  he  walked  my  lord  over 
the  college  grass-plats,  changed  his  behavior  as  soon  as  the 
nobleman's  back  was  turned,  and  was  —  at  least  Harry  thought 
so  —  harsh  and  overbearing.  When  the  lads  used  to  assemble 
in  their  greges  in  hall,  Harr}'  found  himself  alone  in  the  midst 
of  that  little  flock  of  boys  ;  they  raised  a  great  laugh  at  him 
when  he  was  set  on  to  read  Latin,  which  he  did  with  the  foreign 
pronunciation  taught  to  him  by  his  old  master,  the  Jesuit,  than 
which  he  knew  no  other.  Mr.  Bridge,  the  tutor,  made  him 
the  object  of  clums}^  jokes,  in  which  he  was  fond  of  indulging. 
The  young  man's  spirit  was  chafed,  and  his  vanity'  mortified ; 
and  he  found  himself,  for  sorne  time,  as  lonely  in  this  place  as 
ever  he  had  been  at  Castle  wood,  whither  he  longed  to  return. 
His  birth  was  a  source  of  shame  to  him,  and  he  fancied  a  hun- 
dred slights  and  sneers  from  3^oung  and  old,  who,  no  doubt, 
'had  treated  him  better  had  he  met  them  himself  more  frankly. 
And  as  he  looks  back,  in  calmer  days,  upon  this  period  of  his 
life,  which  he  thought  so  unhappy,  he  can  see  that  his  own 
pride  and  vanity  caused  no  small  part  of  the  mortifications 
which  he  attributed  to  other's  ill  will.  The  world  deals  good- 
naturedl}'  with  good-natured  people,  and  I  never  knew  a  sulky 
misanthropist  who  quarrelled  with  it,  but  it  was  he,  and  not  it, 
that  was  in  the  wrong.  Tom  Tusher  gave  Harry  plenty  of 
good  advice  on  this  subject,  for  Tom  had  both  good  sense  and 
good  humor ;  but  Mr.  Harry  chose  to  treat  his  senior  with  a 
great  deal  of  superfluous  disdain  and  absurd  scorn,  and  would 
by  no  means  part  from  his  darling  injuries,  in  which,  verj^ 
likely,  no  man  believed  but  himself.  As  for  honest  Doctor 
Bridge,  the  tutor  found,  after  a  few  trials  of  wit  with  the  pupil, 
that  the  young  man  was  an  ugly  subject  for  wit,  and  that  the 
laugh  was  often  turned  against  him.  This  did  not  make  tutor 
and  pupil  any  better  friends ;  but  had,  so  far,  an  advantage 
for  Esmond,  that  Mr.  Bridge  was  induced  to  leave  him  alone ; 
and  so  long  as  he  kept  his  chapels,  and  did  the  college  exer- 
cises required  of  him,  Bridge  was  content  not  to  see  Harry's 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  91 

glum  face  in  his  class,  and  to  leave  him  to  read  and  sulk  for 
himself  in  his  own  chamber. 

A  poem  or  two  in  Latin  and  English,  which  were  pronounced 
to  have  some  merit,  and  a  Latin  oration,  (for  Mr.  Esmond 
could  write  that  language  better  than  pronounce  it,)  got  him  a 
little  reputation  both  with  the  authorities  of  the  University  and 
amongst  the  3'oung  men,  with  whom  he  began  to  pass  for  more 
than  he  was  worth.  A  few  victories  over  their  common  enemy, 
Mr.  Bridge,  made  them  incKne  towards  him,  and  look  upon 
him  as  the  champion  of  their  order  against  the  seniors.  Such 
of  the  lads  as  he  took  into  his  confidence  found  him  not  so 
gloomj'  and  haughty  as  his  appearance  led  them  to  believe ; 
and  Don  Dismallo,  as  he  was  called,  became  presently  a  person 
of  some  little  importance  in  his  college,  and  was,  as  he  believes, 
set  down  by  the  seniors  there  as  rather  a  dangerous  character. 

Don  Dismallo  was  a  staunch  young  Jacobite,  like  the  rest 
of  his  family  ;  gave  himself  man}^  absurd  airs  of  loyalty ;  used 
to  invite  3'oung  friends  to  Burgundy,  and  give  the  King's  health 
on  King  James's  birthday  ;  wore  black  on  the  day  of  his  abdi- 
cation ;  fasted  on  the  anniversary  of  King  William's  coronation  ; 
and  performed  a  thousand  absurd  antics,  of  which  he  smiles 
now  to  think. 

These  follies  caused  many  remonstrances  on  Tom  Tusher's 
part,  who  was  always  a  friend  to  the  powers  that  be,  as  Esmon(? 
was  always  in  opposition  to  them.  Tom  was  a  Whig,  while 
Esmond  was  a  Tory.  Tom  never  missed  a  lecture,  and  capped 
the  proctor  with  the  profoundest  of  bows.  No  wonder  he 
sighed  over  Harrj-'s  insubordinate  courses,  and  was  angry  when 
the  others  laughed  at  him.  But  that  Hany  was  known  to  have 
my  Lord  Viscount's  protection,  Tom  no  doubt  would  have 
broken  with  him  altogether.  But  honest  Tom  never  gave  up 
a  comrade  as  long  as  he  was  the  friend  of  a  great  man.  This 
was  not  out  of  scheming  on  Tom's  part,  but  a  natural  inclina- 
tion towards  the  great.  'Twas  no  tiypocris}'  in  him  to  flatter, 
but  the  bent  of  his  mind,  which  was  always  perfectly  good- 
humored,  obliging,  and  servile. 

Harry  had  very  liberal  allowances,  for  his  dear  mistress  of 
Castle  wood  not  onlj^  regularly  supplied  him,  but  the  Dowager 
of  Chelsey  made  her  donation  annual,  and  received  Esmond  at 
her  house  near  London  every  Christmas  ;  but,  in  spite  of  these 
benefactions,  Esmond  was  constantly  poor ;  whilst  'twas  a 
wonder  with  how  small  a  stipend  from  his  father  Tom  Tusher 
contrived  to  make  a  good  figure.  'Tis  true  that  Harry  both 
spent,  gave,  and  lent  his   money  very  freely,  which  Thomas 


92  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

never  did.  I  think  he  was  like  the  famous  Duke  of  Marlbor- 
ough in  this  instance,  who,  getting  a  present  of  fifty  pieces, 
when  a  young  man,  from  some  foolish  woman  who  fell  in  love 
with  his  good  looks,  showed  the  money  to  Cadogan  in  a  drawer 
scores  of  years  after,  where  it  had  lain  ever  since  he  had  sold 
his  beardless  honor  to  procure  it.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
Tom  ever  let  out  his  good  looks  so  profitably,  for  nature  had 
not  endowed  him  with  any  particular  charms  of  person,  and  he 
ever  was  a  pattern  of  moral  behavior,  losing  no  oj^portunity 
of  giving  the  very  best  advice  to  his  younger  comrade ;  with 
which  article,  to  do  him  justice,  he  parted  very  freely.  Not 
but  that  he  was  a  merry  fellow,  too,  in  his  way  ;  he  ^loved  a 
joke,  if  by  good  fortune  he  understood  it,  and  took  his  share 
generously  of  a  bottle  if  another  paid  for  it,  and  especially  if 
there  was  a  young  lord  in  company  to  drink  it.  In  these  cases 
there  was  not  a  harder  drinker  in  the  University  than  Mr. 
Tusher  could  be  ;  and  it  was  edifying  to  behold  him,  fresh 
shaved  and  with  smug  face,  singing  out  "Amen!"  at  early 
chapel  in  the  morning.  In  his  reading,  poor  Harry  permitted 
himself  to  go  a-gadding  after  all  the  Nine  Muses,  and  so  very 
likely  had  but  little  favor  from  any  one  of  them  ;  whereas  Tom 
Tusher,  who  had  no  more  turn  for  poetr}'  than  a  ploughboy, 
nevertheless,  by  a  dogged  perseverance  and  obsequiousness  in 
courting  the  divine  Calliope,  got  himself  a  prize,  and  some 
credit  in  the  Universit3^  and  a  fellowship  at  his  college,  as  a 
reward  for  his  scholarship.  In  this  time  of  Mr.  Esmond's  life, 
he  got  the  little  reading  which  he  ever  could  boast  of,  and 
passed  a  good  part  of  his  days  greedily  devouring  all  the  books 
on  which  he  could  lay  hand.  In  this  desultory  wa}'  the  works 
of  most  of  the  English,  French,  and  Italian  poets  came  under 
his  eyes,  and  he  had  a  smattering  of  the  Spanish  tongue  like- 
wise, besides  the  ancient  languages,  of  which,  at  least  of  Latin, 
he  was  a  tolerable  master. 

Then,  about  midway  in  his  University  career,  he  fell  to 
reading  for  the  profession  to  which  worldly  prudence  rather 
than  inclination  called  him,  and  was  perfectly  bewildered  in 
theological  controvers3\  In  the  course  of  his  reading  (which 
was  neither  pursued  with  that  seriousness  or  that  devout  mind 
which  such  a  study  requires)  the  3'outh  found  himself  at  the 
end  of  one  month  a  Papist,  and  was  about  to  proclaim  his  faith  ; 
the  next  month  a  Protestant,  with  Chillingworth  ;  and  the  third 
a  sceptic,  with  Hobbes  and  Bayle.  Whereas  honest  Tom  Tusher 
never  permitted  his  mind  to  stray  out  of  the  prescribed  Univer- 
sity path,  accepted  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  with  aU  his  heart, 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  93 

and  would  have  signed  and  sworn  to  other  nine-and-thirty  with 
entire  obedience.  Harry's  wilMness  in  this  matter,  and  dis- 
orderly thoughts  and  conversation,  so  shocked  and  afflicted  his 
senior,  that  there  grew  up  a  coldness  and  estrangement  between 
them,  so  that  they  became  scarce  more  than  mere  acquaintances, 
from  having  been  intimate  friends  when  the}'  came  to  college 
first.  Politics  ran  high,  too,  at  the  University  ;  and  here,  also, 
the  young  men  were  at  variance.  Tom  professed  himself,  albeit 
a  high-churchman,  a  strong  King  William's-man  ;  whereas  Harry 
brought  his  family  Tory  politics  to  college  with  him,  to  which 
he  must  add  a  dangerous  admiration  for  OUver  Cromwell, 
whose  side,  or  King  James's  by  turns,  he  often  chose  to  take  in 
the  disputes  which  the  young  gentlemen  used  to  hold  in  each 
other's  rooms,  where  they  debated  on  the  state  of  the  nation, 
crowned  and  deposed  kings,  and  toasted  past  and  present  heroes 
and  beauties  in  flagons  of  college  ale. 

Thus,  either  from  the  circumstances  of  his  birth,  or  the  natu- 
ral melancholy  of  his  disposition,  Esmond  came  to  live  very 
much  by  himself  during  his  stay  at  the  University,  having  neither 
ambition  enough  to  distinguish  himself  in  the  college  career, 
nor  caring  to  mingle  with  the  mere  pleasures  and  boyish  frolics 
of  the  students,  who  were,  for  the  most  part,  two  or  three  years 
3'ounger  than  he.  He  fancied  that  the  gentlemen  of  the  com- 
mon-room of  his  college  shghted  him  on  account  of  his  birth, 
and  hence  kept  aloof  from  their  society.  It  may  be  that  he 
made  the  ill  will,  which  he  imagined  came  from  them,  by  his 
own  behavior,  which,  as  he  looks  back  on  it  in  after  life,  he  now 
sees  was  morose  and  haughty.  At  any  rate,  he  was  as  tenderly 
grateful  for  kindness  as  he  was  susceptible  of  slight  and  wrong  ; 
and,  lonel}'  as  he  was  generally,  yet  had  one  or  two  very  warm 
friendships  for  his  companions  of  those  days. 

One  of  these  was  a  queer  gentleman  that  resided  in  the 
University,  though  he  was  no  member  of  it,  and  was  the  pro- 
fessor of  a  science  scarce  recognized  in  the  common  course  of 
college  education.  This  was  a  French  refugee-officer,  who  had 
been  driven  out  of  his  native  country  at  the  time  of  the  Protes- 
tant persecutions  there,  and  who  came  to  Cambridge,  where  he 
taught  the  science  of  the  small-sword,  and  set  up  a  saloon-of- 
arms.  Though  he  declared  himself  a  Protestant,  'twas  said 
Mr.  Moreau  was  a  Jesuit  in  disguise  ;  indeed,  he  brought  very 
strong  recommendations  to  the  Tory  part}',  which  was  pretty 
strong  in  that  University,  and  very  likely  was  one  of  the  many 
agents  whom  King  James  had  in  this  country.  Esmond  found 
this  gentleman's  conversation  very  much  more  agreeable  and  to 


94  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

his  taste  than  the  talk  of  the  college  divines  in  the  common- 
room  ;  he  never  wearied  of  Moreaa's  stories  cf  the  wars  of 
Turenne  and  Conde,  in  which  he  had  borne  a  part ;  and  being 
familiar  with  the  French  tongue  from  his  youth,  and  in  a  place 
where  but  few  spoke  it,  his  company  became  very  agreeable  to 
the  brave  old  professor  of  arms,  whose  favorite  pupil  he  was, 
and  who  made  Mr.  Esmond  a  very  tolerable  proficient  in  the 
noble  science  of  escrime. 

At  the  next  term  Esmond  was  to  take  his  degree  of  Bachelor 
of  Arts,  and  afterwards,  in  proper  season,  to  assume  the  cas- 
sock and  bands  which  his  fond  mistress  would  have  him  wear. 
Tom  Tusher  himself  was  a  parson  and  a  fellow  of  his  college 
b}'  this  time  ;  and  Harry  felt  that  he  would  very  gladly  cede  his 
right  to  the  living  of  Castlewood  to  Tom,  and  that  his  own  call- 
ing was  in  no  way  to  the  pulpit.  But  as  he  was  bound,  before 
all  things  in  the  world,  to  his  dear  mistress  at  home,  and  knew 
that  a  refusal  on  his  part  would  grieve  her,  he  determined  to 
give  her  no  hint  of  his  unwillingness  to  the  clerical  office  :  and 
it  was  in  this  unsatisfactory  mood  of  mind  that  he  went  to  spend 
the  last  vacation  he  should  have  at  Castlewood  before  he  took 
orders. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

I   COME   HOME   FOR   A   HOLIDAY  TO   CASTLEWOOD,  AND   FIND   A 
SKELETON    IN   THE   HOUSE. 

At  his  third  long  vacation,  Esmond  came  as  usual  to  Castle- 
wood,  always  feeling  an  eager  thrill  of  pleasure  when  he  found 
himself  once  more  in  the  house  where  he  had  passed  so  many 
years,  and  beheld  the  kind  familiar  ej'es  of  his  mistress  look- 
ing upon  him.  She  and  her  children  (out  of  whose  compan}' 
she  scarce  ever  saw  him)  came  to  greet  him.  Miss  Beatrix 
was  grown  so  tall  that  Harry  did  not  quite  know  whether  he 
might  kiss  her  or  no ;  and  she  blushed  and  held  back  when 
he  offered  that  salutation,  though  she  took  it,  and  even  courted 
it,  when  they  were  alone.  The  young  lord  was  shooting  up  to 
be  like  his  gallant  father  in  look,  though  with  his  mother's  kind 
eyes  :  the  lady  of  Castlewood  herself  seemed  grown,  too,  since 
Harry  saw  her  —  in  her  look  more  stately,  in  her  person  fuller, 
in  her  face  still  as  ever  most  tender  and  friendl}',  a  greater  air 
of  command  and  decision  than  had  appeared  in  that  guileless 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  95 

sweet  countenance  which  Harry  remembered  so  gratefully. 
The  tone  of  her  voice  was  so  much  deeper  and  sadder  when 
she  spoke  and  welcomed  him,  that  it  quite  startled  Esmond, 
who  looked  up  at  her  surprised  as  she  spoke,  when  she  with- 
drew her  eyes  from  him ;  nor  did  she  ever  look  at  him  after- 
wards when  his  own  e3'es  were  gazing  upon  her.  A  something 
hinting  at  grief  and  secret,  and  filling  his  mind  with  alarm 
undefinable,  seemed  to  speak  with  that  low  thrilling  voice  of 
hers,  and  look  out  of  those  clear  sad  eyes.  Her  greeting 
to  Esmond  was  so  cold  that  it  almost  pained  the  lad,  (who 
would  have  liked  to  fall  on  his  knees,  and  kiss  the  skirt  of  her 
robe,  so  fond  and  ardent  was  his  respect  and  regard  for  her,) 
and  he  faltered  in  answering  the  questions  which  she,  hesitating 
on  her  side,  began  to  put  to  him.  Was  he  happy  at  Cambridge  ? 
Did  he  study  too  hard  ?  She  hoped  not.  He  had  grown  very 
All,  and  looked  ver}-  well. 

'-  He  has  got  a  moustache  !  "  cries  out  Master  Esmond. 

"  Why  does  he  not  wear  a  peruke  like  m}^  Lord  Mohun?" 
asked  Miss  Beatrix.  '*My  lord  says  that  nobody  wears  their 
own  hair." 

"  I  believe  3'ou  will  have  to  occup}"  3'our  old  chamber,"  says 
my  lady.     "  I  hope  the  housekeeper  has  got  it  read}'." 

"  Why,  mamma,  you  have  been  there  ten  times  these  three 
days  yourself!  "  exclaims  Frank. 

"  And  she  cut  some  flowers  which  3'ou  planted  in  m^'  garden — 
do  3'ou  remember,  ever  so  many  3'ears  ago  ?  —  when  I  was  quite 
a  little  girl,"  cries  out  Miss  Beatrix,  on  tiptoe.  "  And  mamma 
put  them  in  3'our  window." 

"  I  remember  when  3'ou  grew  well  after  you  were  ill  that 
j'ou  used  to  like  roses,"  said  the  lad3%  blushing  like  one  of 
them.  The3'  all  conducted  Flarry  Esmond  to  his  chamber  ;  the 
children  running  before,  Harr3^  walking  b3'  his  mistress  hand- 
in-hand. 

The  old  room  had  been  ornamented  and  beautified  not  a  . 
iv.tle  to  receive  him.  The  flowers  were  in  the  window  in  a  china 
vase  ;  and  there  was  a  fine  new  counterpane  on  the  bed,  which 
chatterbox  Beatrix  said  mamma  had  made  too.  A  fire  was 
crackling  on  the  hearth,  although  it  was  June.  M3^  lad3'  thought 
the  room  wanted  warming ;  everything  was  done  to  make  him 
happ3'  and  welcome:  "And  you  are  not  to  be  a  page  any 
longer,  but  a  gentleman  and  kinsman,  and  to  walk  with  papa 
and  mamma,"  said  the  children.  And  as  soon  as  his  dear  mis- 
tress and  children  had  left  him  to  himself,  it  was  with  a  heart 
overflowing  with  iove  and  gratefulness  that  he  flung  himself 


96  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

down  on  his  knees  b}"  the  side  of  the  little  bed,  and  asked  a 
blessing  upon  those  who  were  so  kind  to  him. 

The  children,  who  are  alwa3's  house  tell-tales,  soon  made  him 
acquahited  with  the  little  history  of  the  house  and  familj-. 
Papa  had  been  to  London  twice.  Papa  often  went  awa}^  now. 
Papa  had  taken  Beatrix  to  Westlands,  where  she  was  taller 
than  Sir  George  Harper's  second  daughter,  though  she  was  two 
years  older.  Papa  had  taken  Beatrix  and  Frank  both  to  Bell- 
minster,  where  Frank  had  got  the  better  of  Lord  Bellminster's 
son  in  a  boxing-match — mj^  lord,  laughing,  told  Harry  after- 
wards. Many  gentlemen  came  to  stop  with  papa,  and  papa  had 
gotten  a  new  game  from  London,  a  French  game,  called  a  bil- 
liard —  that  the  French  king  played  it  very  well :  and  the 
Dowager  Lady  Castlewood  had  sent  Miss  Beatrix  a  present ; 
and  papa  had  gotten  a  new  chaise,  with  two  little  horses,  which 
he  drove  himself,  beside  the  coach,  which  mamma  went  in  ; 
and  Dr.  Tusher  was  a  cross  old  plague,  and  they  did  not  like 
to  learn  from  him  at  all ;  and  papa  did  not  care  about  them 
learning,  and  laughed  when  they  were  at  their  books,  but 
mamma  liked  them  to  learn,  and  taught  them  ;  and  "  I  don't 
think  papa  is  fond  of  mamma,"  said  Miss  Beatrix,  with  her 
great  eyes.  She  had  come  quite  close  up  to  Harry  Esmond 
by  the  time  this  prattle  took  place,  and  was  on  his  knee,  and 
had  examined  all  the  points  of  his  dress,  and  all  the  good  or 
bad  features  of  his  homel}'  face. 

''  You  shouldn't  say  that  papa  is  not  fond  of  mamma,"  said 
the  boy,  at  this  confession.  "Mamma  never  said  so;  and 
mamma  forbade  3'ou  to  say  it,  Miss  Beatrix." 

'Twas  this,  no  doubt,  that  accounted  for  the  sadness  in  Lady 
Castlewood's  eyes,  and  the  plaintive  vibrations  of  her  voice. 
Who  does  not  know  of  eyes,  lighted  b}^  love  once,  where  the 
flame  shines  no  more?  —  of  lamps  extinguished,  once  properl}^ 
trimmed  and  tended?  Every  man  has  such  in  his  house. 
Such  mementoes  make  our  splendidest  chambers  look  blank  and 
sad  ;  such  faces  seen  in  a  day  cast  a  gloom  upon  our  sunshine. 
So  oaths  mutually  sworn,  and  invocations  of  heaven,  and  priestly 
ceremonies,  and  fond  belief,  and  love,  so  fond  and  faithful  that 
it  never  doubted  but  that  it  should  live  for  ever,  are  all  of  no 
avail  towards  making  love  eternal :  it  dies,  in  spite  of  the  banns 
and  the  priest ;  and  I  have  often  thought  there  should  be  a 
visitation  of  the  sick  for  it,  and  a  funeral  service,  and.  an  ex- 
treme unction,  and  an  abi  in  pace.  It  has  its  course,  like  all 
mortal  things  —  its  beginning,  progress,  and  decay.  It  buds 
and   it  blooms  out  into  sunshine,   and  it  withers   and   ends. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  97 

Strephon  and  Chloe  languish  apart ;  join  in  a  rapture :  and 
presentl}'  you  hear  that  Chloe  is  crying,  and  Strephon  has 
broken  his  crook  across  her  back.  Can  3'ou  mend  it  so  as  to 
show  no  marks  of  rupture?  Not  all  the  priests  of  Hymen,  not 
all  the  incantations  to  the  gods,  can  make  it  whole ! 

Waking  up  from  dreams,  books,  and  visions  of  college 
honors,  in  which  for  two  3'ears,  Harry  Esmond  had  been  im- 
mersed, he  found  himself,  instantl}^,  on  his  return  home,  in  the 
midst  of  this  actual  traged}'  of  life,  wiiich  absorbed  and  inter- 
ested him  more  than  all  his  tutor  had  taught  him.  The  persons 
whom  he  loved  best  in  the  world,  and  to  whom  he  owed  most, 
were  living  unhappily'  together.  The  gentlest  and  kindest  of 
women  was  suffering  ill  usage  and  shedding  tears  in  secret :  the 
man  who  made  her  wretched  by  neglect,  if  not  by  violence,  was 
Harry's  benefactor  and  patron.  In  houses  where,  in  place  of 
that  sacred,  inmost  flame  of  love,  there  is  discord  at  the  centre, 
the  whole  household  becomes  hypocritical,  and  each  hes  to  his 
neighbor.  The  husband  (or  it  may  be  the  wife)  lies  when  the 
visitor  comes  in,  and  wears  a  grin  of  reconciliation  or  politeness 
before  him.  The  wife  lies  (indeed,  her  business  is  to  do  that, 
and  to  smile,  however  much  she  is  beaten),  swallows  her  tears, 
and  lies  to  her  lord  and  master ;  lies  in  bidding  little  Jackey 
respect  dear  papa ;  lies  in  assuring  grandpapa  that  she  is  per- 
fecth'  happy.  The  servants  lie,  wearing  grave  faces  behind 
their  master's  chair,  and  pretending  to  be  unconscious  of  the 
fighting ;  and  so,  from  morning  till  bedtime,  life  is  passed  in 
falsehood.  And  wiseacres  call  this  a  proper  regard  of  morals, 
and  point  out  Baucis  and  Philemon  as  examples  of  a  good  life. 

If  my  lady  did  not  speak  of  her  griefs  to  Harry  Esmond,  my 
lord  was  by  no  means  reserved  when  in  his  cups,  and  spoke  his 
mind  very  freely,  bidding  Harry  in  his  coarse  way,  and  with 
his  blunt  language,  beware  of  all  women  as  cheats,  jades,  jilts, 
and  using  other  unmistakable  monosyllables  in  speaking  of 
them.  Indeed,  'twas  the  fashion  of  the  day,  as  I  must  own ; 
and  there's  not  a  writer  of  my  time  of  an}^  note,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  poor  Dick  Steele,  that  does  not  speak  of  a  woman 
as  of  a  slave,  and  scorn  and  use  her  as  such.  Mr.  Pope,  Mr. 
Congreve,  Mr.  Addison,  Mr.  Gslj,  every  one  of  'em,  sing  in  this 
key,  each  according  to  his  nature  and  politeness,  and  louder  and 
fouler  than  all  in  abuse  is  Dr.  Swift,  who  spoke  of  them  as  he 
treated  them,  w^orst  of  all. 

Much  of  the  quarrels  and  hatred  which  arise  between  married 
people  come  in  my  mind  from  the  husband's  rage  and  revolt  at 
discovering  that  his  slave  and  bedfellow,  who  is  to  minister  to 


98  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

all  his  wishes,  and  is  church-sworn  to  honor  and  obey  him  —  is 
his  superior ;  and  that  Ae,  and  not  she,  ought  to  be  the  subordi- 
nate of  the  twain  ;  and  in  these  controversies,  I  think,  lay  the 
cause  of  my  lord's  anger  against  his  lady.  When  he  left  her, 
she  began  to  think  for  herself,  and  her  thoughts  were  not  in  his 
favor.  After  the  illumination,  when  the  love-lamp  is  put  out 
that  anon  we  spoke  of,  and  by  the  common  daylight  we  look  at 
the  picture,  what  a  daub  it  looks  !  what  a  clumsy  effigy  !  How 
many  men  and  wives  come  to  this  knowledge,  think  you?  And 
if  it  be  painful  to  a  woman  to  find  herself  mated  for  life  to  a 
boor,  and  ordered  to  love  and  honor  a  dullard  ;  it  is  worse  still 
for  the  man  himself  perhaps,  whenever  in  his  dim  comprehen- 
sion the  idea  dawns  that  his  slave  and  drudge  yonder  is,  in  truth, 
his  superior ;  that  the  woman  who  does  his  bidding,  and  sub- 
mits to  his  humor,  should  be  his  lord  ;  that  she  can  think  a  thou- 
sand things  beyond  the  power  of  his  muddled  brains  ;  and  that 
in  yonder  head,  on  the  pillow  opposite  to  him,  lie  a  thousand 
feelings,  mysteries  of  thought,  latent  scorns  and  rebellions, 
whereof  he  only  dimly  perceives  the  existence  as  they  look  out 
furtively  from  her  e3'es :  treasures  of  love  doomed  to  perish 
without  a  hand  to  gather  them  ;  sweet  fancies  and  images  of 
beauty  that  would  grow  and  unfold  themselves  into  flower  ;  bright 
wit  that  would  shine  like  diamonds  could  it  be  brought  into  the 
sun :  and  the  tyrant  in  possession  crushes  the  outbreak  of  all 
these,  drives  them  back  like  slaves  into  the  dungeon  and  dark- 
ness, and  chafes  without  that  his  prisoner  is  rebellious,  and  his 
sworn  subject  undutiful  and  refractory.  So  the  lamp  was  out 
in  Castlewood  Hall,  and  the  lord  and  lady  there  saw  each  other 
as  the}^  were.  With  her  illness  and  altered  beauty  m}-  lord's 
fire  for  his  wife  disappeared  ;  with  his  selfishness  and  faithless- 
ness her  foolish  fiction  of  love  and  reverence  was  rent  away. 
Love  !  —  who  is  to  love  what  is  base  and  unlovely?  Respect ! 
—  who  is  to  respect  what  is  gross  and  sensual?  Not  all  the 
marriage  oaths  sworn  before  all  the  parsons,  cardinals,  minis- 
ters, muftis,  and  rabbins  in  the  world,  can  bind  to  that  monstrous 
allegiance.  This  couple  was  living  apart  then  ;  the  woman 
happy  to  be  allowed  to  love  and  tend  her  children  (who  were 
never  of  her  own  good-will  away  from  her) ,  and  thankful  to  have 
saved  such  treasures  as  these  out  of  the  wreck  in  which  the 
better  part  of  her  heart  went  down. 

These  young  ones  had  had  no  instructors  save  their  mother, 
and  Doctor  Tusher  for  their  theology  occasionally,  and  had  made 
more  progress  than  might  have  been  expected  under  a  tutor  so 
indulgent  and  fond  as  Lady  Castlewood.     Beatrix  could  sing 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  99 

and  dance  like  a  n3'mph.  Her  voice  was  her  father's  delight 
after  dinner.  She  ruled  over  the  house  with  little  imperial  ways, 
which  her  parents  coaxed  and  laughed  at.  She  had  long  learned 
the  value  of  her  bright  eyes,  and  tried  experiments  in  coquetry, 
in  corpore  vili^  upon  rustics  and  country  squires,  until  she  should 
prepare  to  conquer  the  world  and  the  fashion.  She  put  on  a 
new  ribbon  to  welcome  Harrj'  Esmond,  made  eyes  at  him,  and 
directed  her  young  smiles  at  him,  not  a  little  to  the  amusement 
of  the  3^oung  man,  and  the  joy  of  her  father,  who  laughed  his 
great  laugh,  and  encouraged  her  in  her  thousand  antics.  Lady 
Castlewood  watched  the  child  gravely  and  sadly :  the  little  one 
was  pert  in  her  replies  to  her  mother,  yet  eager  in  her  protesta- 
tions of  love  and  promises  of  amendment ;  and  as  ready  to  cr}' 
(after  a  little  quarrel  brought  on  by  her  own  giddiness)  until 
she  had  won  back  her  mamma's  favor,  as  she  was  to  risk  the 
kind  lady's  displeasure  by  fresh  outbreaks  of  i-estless  vanity. 
From  her  mother's  sad  looks  she  fled  to  her  father's  chair  and 
boozy  laughter.  She  alread}^  set  the  one  against  the  other  :  and 
the  little  rogue  delighted  in  the  mischief  which  she  knew  how 
to  make  so  earty. 

The  young  heir  of  Castlewood  was  spoiled  by  father  and 
mother  both.  He  took  their  caresses  as  men  do,  and  as  if  they 
were  his  right.  He  had  his  hawks  and  his  spaniel  dog,  his  little 
horse  and  his  beagles.  He  had  learned  to  ride,  and  to  drink, 
and  to  shoot  flying :  and  he  had  a  small  court,  the  sons  of  the 
huntsman  and  woodman,  as  became  the  heir-apparent,  taking 
after  the  example  of  my  lord  his  father.  If  he  had  a  headache, 
'his  mother  was  as  much  frightened  as  if  the  plague  were  in  the 
house  :  my  lord  laughed  and  jeered  in  his  abrupt  wa}'  —  (indeed, 
'twas  on  the  day  after  New  Year's  Day,  and  an  excess  of  mince- 
pie)  —  and  said  with  some  of  his  usual  oaths  — "  D — n  it,  Harry 
Esmond  —  3'ou  see  how  my  lad}"  takes  on  about  Frank's  megrim. 
She  used  to  be  sorry  about  me,  m}^  boy  (pass  the  tankard, 
Harry),  and  to  be  frightened  if  I  had  a  headache  once.  She 
don't  care  about  my  head  now.     They're  like  that  —  women  are 

—  all  the  same,  Harry,  all  jilts  in  their  hearts.     Stick  to  college 

—  stick  to  punch  and  butter^'  ale  :  and  never  see  a  woman  that's 
handsomer  than  an  old  cinder-faced  bed-maker.  That's  m}^ 
counsel." 

It  was  my  lord's  custom  to  fling  out  many  jokes  of  this 
nature,  in  presence  of  his  wife  and  children,  at  meals  —  clumsy 
sarcasms  which  my  lad}^  turned  many  a  time,  or  which,  some- 
times, she  affected  not  to  hear,  or  which  now  and  again  would 
hit  their  mark  and  make  the  poor  victim  wince  (as  3'ou  could 


100  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESM0:N"D. 

see  hj  her  flushing  face  and  eyes  filling  with  tears),  or  which 
again  worked  her  up  to  anger  and  retort,  when,  in  answer  to 
one  of  these  heavy  bolts,  she  would  flash  back  with  a  quiver- 
ing reply.  The  pair  were  not  happ}'  ;  nor  indeed  was  it  happy 
to  be  with  them.  Alas  that  youthful  love  and  truth  should 
end  in  bitterness  and  bankruptc}'  !  To  see  a  young  couple 
loving  each  other  is  no  wonder ;  but  to  see  an  old  couple 
loving  each  other  is  the  best  sight  of  all.  Harry  Esmond 
became  the  confidant  of  one  and  the  other  —  that  is,  my  lord 
told  the  lad  all  his  griefs  and  wrongs  (which  were  indeed  of 
Lord  Castlewood's  own  making) ,  and  Harry  divined  my  lady's  ; 
his  aflfection  leading  him  easily  to  penetrate  the  hypocrisy 
under  which  Lady  Castle  wood  generally  chose  to  go  disguised, 
and  see  her  heart  aching  whilst  her  face  wore  a  smile.  'Tis 
a  hard  task  for  women  in  life,  that  mask  which  the  world  bids 
them  wear.  But  there  is  no  greater  crime  than  for  a  woman 
who  is  ill  used  and  unhapp^^  to  show  that  she  is  so.  The 
world  is  quite  relentless  about  bidding  her  to  keep  a  cheerful 
face  ;  and  our  women,  like  the  Malabar  wives,  are  forced  to 
go  smiling  and  painted  to  sacrifice  themselves  with  their  hus- 
bands ;  their  relations  being  the  most  eager  to  push  them  on  to 
their  clut}',  and,  under  their  shouts  and  applauses,  to  smother 
and  hush  their  cries  of  pain. 

So,  into  the  sad  secret  of  his  patron's  household,  Harry 
Esmond  became  initiated,  he  scarce  knew  how.  It  had  passed 
under  his  eyes  two  years  before,  when  he  could  not  understand 
it ;  but  reading,  and  thought,  and  experience  of  men,  had 
oldened  him  ;  and  one  of  the  deepest  sorrows  of  a  life  which 
had  never,  in  truth,  been  very  happy,  came  upon  him  now, 
when  he  was  compelled  to  understand  and  pity  a  grief  which 
he  stood  quite  powerless  to  relieve. 

It  hath  been  said  my  lord  would  never  take  the  oath  of 
allegiance,  nor  his  seat  as  a  peer  of  the  kingdom  of  Ireland, 
where,  indeed,  he  had  but  a  nominal  estate  ;  and  refused  an 
Enghsh  peerage  which  King  William's  government  offered  him 
as  a  bribe  to  secure  his  loj^alty. 

He  might  have  accepted  this,  and  would  doubtless,  but  for 
the  earnest  remonstrances  of  his  wife,  who  ruled  her  husband's 
opinions  better  than  she  could  govern  his  conduct,  and  who 
being  a  simple-hearted  woman,  with  but  one  rule  of  faith  and 
right,  never  thought  of  swerving  from  her  fidelity  to  the 
exiled  famil}^  or  of  recognizing  any  other  sovereign  but  King 
James  ;  and  though  she  acquiesced  in  the  doctrine  of  obedi- 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HEXRY   ESMOND.  101 

ence  to  the  reigning  power,  no  temptation,  she  thought,  could 
induce  her  to  acl^nowledge  the  Prince  of  Orange  as  rightful 
monarch,  nor  to  let  her  lord  so  acknowledge  him.  So  mj^Lord 
Castlewood  remained  a  nonjuror  all  his  life  nearl}',  though  his 
self-denial  caused  him  many  a  pang,  and  left  him  sulky  and  out 
of  humor. 

The  3^ear  after  the  Revolution,  and  all  through  King  Wil- 
liam's life,  'tis  known  there  were  constant  intrigues  for  the  res- 
toration of  the  exiled  family ;  but  if  m}-  Lord  Castlewood  took 
any  share  of  these,  as  is  probable,  'twas  only  for  a  short  time, 
and  when  Harry  Esmond  was  too  young  to  be  introduced  into 
such  important  secrets. 

But  in  the  yesir  1695,  when  that  conspiracy  of  Sir  John 
Fenwick,  Colonel  Lowick,  and  others,  was  set  on  foot,  for 
waylaying  King  William  as  he  came  from  Hampton  Court  to 
London,  and  a  secret  plot  was  formed,  in  which  a  vast  number 
of  the  nobility  and  people  of  honor  were  engaged,  Father 
Holt  appeared  at  Castlewood,  and  brought  a  young  friend  with 
him,  a  gentleman  whom  'twas  eas}^  to  see  that  both  my  lord 
and  the  Father  treated  with  uncommon  deference.  Harry 
Esmond  saw  this  gentleman,  and  knew  and  recognized  him  in 
after  life,  as  shall  be  shown  in  its  place ;  and  he  has  little 
doubt  now  that  my  Lord  Viscount  was  implicated  somewhat  in 
the  transactions  which  always  kept  Father  Holt  emplo3'ed  and 
travelling  hither  and  thither  under  a  dozen  of  different  names 
and  disguises.  The  Father's  companion  went  by  the  name  of 
Captain  James  ;  and  it  was  under  a  very  different  name  and 
appearance  that  Harry  Esmond  afterwards  saw  him. 

It  was  the  next  year  that  the  Fenwick  conspiracy  blew  up, 
which  is  a  matter  of  public  history  now,  and  which  ended  in 
the  execution  of  Sir  John  and  many  more,  who  suffered  man- 
fully for  their  treason,  and  who  were  attended  to  Tyburn  b}' 
my  lady's  father  Dean  Armstrong,  Mr.  Collier,  and  other 
stout  nonjuring  clerg3^men,  who  absolved  them  at  the  gallows- 
foot. 

'Tis  known  that  when  Sir  John  was  apprehended,  discovery 
was  made  of  a  great  number  of  names  of  gentlemen  engaged  in 
the  conspiracy;  when,  with  a  noble  wisdom  and  clemency,  the 
Prince  burned  the  list  of  conspirators  furnished  to  him,  and 
said  he  would  know  no  more.  Now  it  was  after  this  that  Lord 
Castlewood  swore  his  great  oath,  that  he  would  never,  so  help 
him  heaven,  be  engaged  in  an}^  transaction  against  that  brave 
and  merciful  man  ;  and  so  he  told  Holt  when  the  indefatigable 
priest  visited  him,  and  would  have  had  him  engage  in  a  farther 


102  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND. 

conspiracy.  After  this  my  lord  ever  spoke  of  King  William  as 
he  was  —  as  one  of  the  wisest,  the  bravest,  and  the  greatest  of 
men.  My  Lady  Esmond  (for  her  part)  said  she  could  never 
pardon  the  King,  first,  for  ousting  his  father-in-law  from  his 
throne,  and  secondly,  for  not  being  constant  to  his  wife,  the 
Princess  Mary.  Indeed,  I  think  if  Nero  were  to  rise  again, 
and  be  king  of  England,  and  a  good  family  man,  the  ladies 
yvould  pardon  him.  My  lord  laughed  at  his  wife's  objections  — 
the  standard  of  virtue  did  not  fit  him  much. 

The  last  conference  which  Mr.  Holt  had  witli  his  lordship 
took  place  when  Harry  was  come  home  for  his  first  vacation 
from  college  (Harry  saw  his  old  tutor  but  for  a  half-hour,  and 
exchanged  no  private  words  with  him),  and  their  talk,  what- 
ever it  might  be,  left  my  Lord  Viscount  very  much  disturbed 
in  mind  —  so  much  so,  that  his  wife,  and  his  young  kinsman, 
Henry  Esmond,  could  not  but  observe  his  disquiet.  After  Holt 
was  gone,  m}^  lord  rebuffed  Esmond,  and  again  treated  him 
with  the  greatest  deference ;  he  shunned  his  wife's  questions 
and  company,  and  looked  at  his  children  with  such  a  face  of 
gloom  and  anxiety,  muttering,  "Poor  children  —  poor  chil- 
dren !  "  in  a  way  that  could  not  but  fill  those  whose  life  it  was 
to  watch  him  and  obe}^  him  with  great  alarm.  For  which 
gloom,  each  person  interested  in  the  Lord  Castlewood,  framed 
in  his  or  her  own  mind  an  interpretation. 

My  lad}^  with  a  laugh  of  cruel  bitterness  said,  "  I  suppose 
the  person  at  Hexton  has  been  ill,  or  has  scolded  him"  (for 
my  lord's  infatuation  about  Mrs.  Marwood  was  known  only  too 
well).  Young  Esmond  feared  for  his  mone}^  aflEairs,  into  the 
condition  of  which  he  had  been  initiated ;  and  that  the  ex- 
penses, always  greater  than  his  revenue,  had  caused  Lord 
Castlewood  disquiet. 

One  of  the  causes  why  my  Lord  Viscount  had  taken  young 
Esmond  into  his  special  favor  was  a  trivial  one,  that  hath  not 
before  been  mentioned,  though  it  was  a  very  lucky  accident  in 
Henry  Esmond's  life.  A  very  few  months  after  m}^  lord's  com- 
ing to  Castlewood,  in  the  winter  time  —  the  little  boy,  being  a 
child  in  a  petticoat,  trotting  about  —  it  happened  that  little 
Frank  was  with  his  father  after  dinner,  who  fell  asleep  over  his 
wine,  heedless  of  the  child,  who  crawled  to  the  fire  ;  and,  as 
good  fortune  would  have  it,  Esmond  was  sent  by  his  mistress 
for  the  boy  just  as  the  poor  little  screaming  urchin's  coat  was 
set  on  fire  by  a  log ;  when  Esmond,  rushing  forward,  tore  the 
dress  oflT  the  infant,  so  that  his  own  hands  were  burned  more 
than  the  child's,  who  was  frightened  rather  than  hurt  hy  this 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  103 

accident.  But  certainly  'twas  providential  that  a  resolute  per- 
son should  have  come  in  at  that  instant,  or  the  child  had  been 
burned  to  death  probabl}',  mj  lord  sleeping  very  heavily  after 
drinking,  and  not  waking  so  cool  as  a  man  should  who  had  a 
danger  to  face. 

Ever  after  this  the  father,  loud  in  his  expressions  of  remorse 
and  humility  for  being  a  tipsy  good-for-nothing,  and  of  admira- 
tion for  Harry  Esmond,  whom  his  lordship  would  style  a  hero 
for  doing  a  ver}'  trifling  service,  had  the  tenderest  regard  for 
his  son's  preserver,  and  Harrj-  became  quite  as  one  of  the 
famil}'.  His  burns  were  tended  with  the  greatest  care  b}^  his 
kind  mistress,  who  said  that  heaven  had  sent  him  to  be  the 
guardian  of  her  children,  and  that  she  would  love  him  all  her 
life. 

And  it  was  after  this,  and  from  the  very  great  love  and  ten- 
derness which  had  grown  up  in  this  little  household,  rather  than 
from  the  exhortations  of  Dean  Armstrong  (though  these  had  no 
small  weight  with  him),  that  Harry  came  to  be  quite  of  the 
religion  of  his  house  and  his  dear  mistress,  of  which  he  has 
ever  since  been  a  professing  member.  As  for  Dr.  Tusher's 
boasts  that  he  was  the  cause  of  this  conversion  —  even  in  these 
young  days  Mr.  Esmond  had  such  a  contempt  for  the  Doctor, 
that  had  Tusher  bade  him  believe  anything  (which  he  did  not 
—  never  meddhng  at  all),  Harry  would  that  instant  have  ques- 
tioned the  truth  on't. 

M}'  lady  seldom  drank  wine  ;  but  on  certain  daj^s  of  the 
year,  such  as  birthdays  (poor  Harry  had  never  a  one)  and  anni- 
versaries, she  took  a  little  ;  and  this  day,  the  29th  December, 
was  one.  At  the  end,  then,  of  this  year,  '96,  it  might  have 
been  a  fortnight  after  Mr.  Holt's  last  visit.  Lord  Castlewood 
being  still  very  gloomy  in  mind,  and  sitting  at  table  —  my  lady 
bidding  a  servant  bring  her  a  glass  of  wine,  and  looking  at  her 
husband  with  one  of  her  sweet  smiles,  said  — 

"  My  lord,  will  you  not  fill  a  bumper  too,  and  let  me  call  a 
toast?". 

"  What  is  it,  Rachel?"  says  he,  holding  out  his  empt}^  glass 
to  be  filled. 

"  'Tis  the  29th  of  December,"  says  my  lady,  with  her  fond 
look  of  gratitude  :  "  and  my  toast  is,  '  Harry  —  and  God  bless 
him,  who  saved  my  boy's  life  ! '  " 

My  lord  looked  at  Harry  hard,  and  drank  the  glass,  but 
clapped  it  down  on  the  table  in  a  moment,  and,  with  a  sort  of 
groan,  rose  up,  and  went  out  of  the  room.  What  was  the 
matter?     We  all  knew  that  some  great  grief  was  over  him. 


104  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOi^D. 

Whether  1113-  lord's  prudence  had  made  him  richer,  or  lega- 
cies had  fallen  to  him,  which  enabled  him  to  support  a  greater 
establishment  than  that  frugal  one  which  had  been  too  much 
for  his  small  means,  Harry  Esmond  knew  not ;  but  the  house 
of  Castlewood  was  now  on  a  scale  much  more  costl}-  than  it 
had  been  during  the  first  3'ears  of  his  lordship's  coming  to  the 
title.  There  were  more  horses  in  the  stable  and  more  servants 
in  the  hall,  and  many  more  guests  coming  and  going  now  than 
formerly,  when  it  was  found  difficult  enough  by  the  strictest 
economy  to  keep  the  house  as  befitted  one  of  his  lordship's 
rank,  and  the  estate  out  of  debt.  And  it  did  not  require  very 
much  penetration  to  find  that  many  of  the  new  acquaintances 
at  Castlewood  were  not  agreeable  to  the  lady  there  :  not  that 
she  ever  treated  them  or  any  mortal  with  anything  but  courtes}' ; 
but  they  were  persons  who  could  not  be  welcome  to  her ;  and 
whose  society  a  lady  so  refined  and  reserved  could  scarce  desire 
for  her  children.  There  came  fuddhng  squires  from  the  coun- 
tr}^  round,  who  bawled  their  songs  under  her  windows  and 
drank  themselves  tipsy  with  my  lord's  punch  and  ale :  there 
came  officers  from  Hexton,  in  whose  compan}'  our  little  lord 
was  made  to  hear  talk  and  to  drink,  and  swear  too,  in  a  way 
that  made  the  delicate  lady  tremble  for  her  son.  Esmond  tried 
to  console  her  b^^  sa^'ing  what  he  knew  of  his  College  experi- 
ence ;  that  with  this  sort  of  company  and  conversation  a  man 
must  fall  in  sooner  or  later  in  his  course  through  the  world : 
and  it  mattered  very  little  whether  he  heard  it  at  twelve  3'ears 
old  or  twent}'  —  the  youths  who  quitted  mother's  apron-strings 
the  latest  being  not  uncommonly  the  wildest  rakes.  But  it 
was  about  her  daughter  that  Lady  Castlewood  was  the  most 
anxious,  and  the  danger  which  she  thought  menaced  the  little 
Beatrix  from  the  indulgences  which  her  father  gave  her,  (it 
must  be  owned  that  my  lord,  since  these  unhapp}'  domestic 
differences  especially,  was  at  once  violent  in  his  language  to 
the  children  when  angry,  as  he  was  too  familiar,  not  to  say 
coarse,  when  he  was  in  a  good  humor,)  and  from  the  company 
into  which  the  careless  lord  brought  the  child. 

Not  very  far  off  from  Castlewood  is  Sark  Castle,  where  the 
Marchioness  of  Sark  lived,  who  was  known  to  have  been  a  mis- 
tress of  the  late  King  Charles  —  and  to  this  house,  whither 
indeed  a  great  part  of  the  countr}^  gentry  went,  my  lord  in- 
sisted upon  going,  not  only  himself,  but  on  taking  his  little 
daughter  and  son,  to  play  with  the  children  there.  The  chil- 
dren were  nothing  loth,  for  the  house  was  splendid,  and  the 
welcome  kind  enough.     But  my  lady,  justly  no  doubt,  thought 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  105 

that  the  children  of  such  a  mother  as  that  noted  Lad}^  Sark 
had  been,  could  be  no  good  company  for  her  two ;  and  spoke 
her  mind  to  her  lord.  His  own  language  when  he  was  thwarted 
was  not  indeed  of  the  gentlest :  to  be  brief,  there  was  a  family 
dispute  on  this,  as  there  had  been  on  many  other  points  —  and 
the  lady  was  not  only  forced  to  give  in,  for  the  other's  will  was 
law  —  nor  could  she,  on  account  of  their  tender  age,  tell  her 
children  what  was  the  nature  of  her  objection  to  their  visit  of 
pleasure,  or  indeed  mention  to  them  any  objection  at  all  —  but 
she  had  the  additional  secret  mortification  to  find  them  return- 
ing dehghted  with  their  new  friends,  loaded  with  presents  from 
them,  and  eager  to  be  allowed  to  go  back  to  a  place  of  such 
delights  as  Sark  Castle.  Every  year  she  thought  the  company 
there  would  be  more  dangerous  to  her  daughter,  as  from  a  child 
Beatrix  grew  to  a  woman,  and  her  daily  increasing  beauty,  and 
many  faults  of  character  too,  expanded. 

It  was  Harr}'  Esmond's  lot  to  see  one  of  the  visits  which  the 
old  Lady  of  Sark  paid  to  the  Lad}'  of  Castlewood  Hall :  whither 
she  came  in  state  with  six  chestnut  horses  and  blue  ribbons,  a 
page  on  each  carriage  step,  a  gentleman  of  the  horse,  and  armed 
servants  riding  before  and  behind  her.  And,  but  that  it  was 
unpleasant  to  see  Lad}'  Castle  wood's  face,  it  was  amusing  to 
watch  the  behavior  of  the  two  enemies :  the  frigid  patience 
of  the  younger  lady,  and  the  unconquerable  good-humor  of  the 
elder  —  who  would  see  no  offence  whatever  her  rival  intended, 
and  who  never  ceased  to  smile  and  to  laugh,  and  to  coax  the 
children,  and  to  pay  compliments  to  every  man,  woman,  child, 
nay  dog,  or  chair  and  table,  in  Castlewood,  so  bent  was  she 
upon  admiring  everything  there.  She  lauded  the  children,  and 
wished  —  as  indeed  she  well  might  —  that  her  own  family  had 
been  brought  up  as  well  as  those  cherubs.  She  had  never  seen 
such  a  complexion  as  dear  Beatrix's  —  though  to  be  sure  she 
had  a  right  to  it  from  father  and  mother  —  Lady  Castlewood's 
was  indeed  a  wonder  of  freshness,  and  Lad}'  Sark  sighed  to 
think  she  had  not  been  born  a  fair  woman ;  and  remarking 
Harry  Esmond,  with  a  fascinating  superannuated  smile,  she  com- 
plimented him  on  his  wit,  which  she  said  she  could  see  from  his 
eyes  and  forehead ;  and  vowed  that  she  would  never  have  him 
at  Sark  until  her  daughter  were  out  of  the  way. 


106  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

CHAPTER   XII. 

MY  LORD  MOHUN  COMES  AMONG  US  FOR  NO  GOOD. 

There  had  ridden  along  with  this  old  Princess's  caval- 
cade, two  gentlemen :  her  son,  ray  Lord  Firebrace,  and  his 
friend,  my  Lord  Mohun,  who  both  were  greeted  with  a  great 
deal  of  cordiality  by  the  hospitable  Lord  of  Castle  wood.  My 
Lord  Firebrace  was  but  a  feeble-minded  and  weak-limbed  3'oung 
nobleman,  small  in  stature  and  Hmited  in  understanding  —  to 
judge  from  the  talk  young  Esmond  had  with  him  ;  but  the  other 
was  a  person  of  a  handsome  presence,  with  the  hel  air^  and  a 
bright  daring  warlike  aspect,  which,  according  to  the  chronicle 
of  those  days,  had  already  achieved  for  him  the  conquest  of 
several  beautios  and  toasts.  He  had  fought  and  conquered  in 
France,  as  well  as  in  Flanders  ;  he  had  served  a  couple  of  cam- 
paigns with  the  Prince  of  Baden  on  the  Danube,  and  witnessed 
the  rescue  of  Vienna  from  the  Turk.  And  he  spoke  of  his 
military  exploits  pleasantly,  and  with  the  manly  freedom  of  a 
soldier,  so  as  to  delight  all  his  hearers  at  Castlewood,  who  were 
little  accustomed  to  meet  a  companion  so  agreeable. 

On  the  first  day  this  noble  company  came,  my  lord  would 
not  hear  of  their  departure  before  dinner,  and  carried  away  the 
gentlemen  to  amuse  them,  whilst  his  wife  was  left  to  do  the 
honors  of  her  house  to  the  old  Marchioness  and  her  daughter 
within.  They  looked  at  the  stables  where  my  Lord  Mohun 
praised  the  horses,  though  there  was  but  a  poor  show  there  : 
they  walked  over  the  old  house  and  gardens,  and  fought  the  siege 
of  Oliver's  time  over  again  :  they  played  a  game  of  rackets  in  the 
old  court,  where  m}"  Lord  Castlewood  beat  my  Lord  Mohun,  who 
said  he  loved  ball  of  all  things,  and  would  quickly  come  back  to 
Castlewood  for  his  revenge.  After  dinner  they  played  bowls 
and  drank  punch  in  the  green  alley  ;  and  when  they  parted  the}^ 
were  sworn  friends,  my  Lord  Castlewood  kissing  the  other  lord 
before  he  mounted  on  horseback,  and  pronouncing  him  the  best 
companion  he  had  met  for  many  a  long  da}^  All  night  long, 
over  his  tobacco-pipe,  Castlewood  did  not  cease  to  talk  to  Harry 
Esmond  in  praise  of  his  new  friend,  and  in  fact  did  not  leave 
off  speaking  of  him  until  his  lordship  was  so  tipsy  that  he  could 
not  speak  plainly  any  more. 

At  breakfast  next  day  it  was  the  same  talk  renewed ;  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  107 

when  my  lady  said  there  was  something  free  in  the  Lord  Mo- 
hun's  looks  and  manner  of  speech  which  caused  her  to  mistrust 
him,  her  lord  burst  out  with  one  of  his  laughs  and  oaths  ;  said 
that  he  never  liked  man,  woman,  or  beast,  but  what  she  was  sure 
to  be  jealous  of  it ;  that  Mohun  was  the  prettiest  fellow  in  Eng- 
land ;  that  he  hoped  to  see  more  of  him  whilst  in  the  country ; 
and  that  he  would  let  Mohun  know  what  my  Lady  Prude  said 
of  him. 

"  Indeed,"  Lady  Castlewood  said,  "  I  liked  his  conversation 
well  enough.  'Tis  more  amusing  than  that  of  most  people  I 
know.  1  thought  it,  I  own,  too  free  ;  not  from  what  he  said, 
as  rather  from  what  he  implied." 

"  Psha !  your  ladyship  does  not  know  the  world,"  said  her 
husband  ;  "  and  you  have  always  been  as  squeamish  as  when 
you  were  a  miss  of  fifteen." 

''  You  found  no  fault  when  I  was  a  miss  at  fifteen." 

"  Begad,  madam,  you  are  grown  too  old  for  a  pinafore  now ; 
and  I  hold  that  'tis  for  me  to  judge  what  company  my  wife  shall 
see,"  said  my  lord,  slapping  the  table. 

"  Indeed,  Francis,  I  never  thought  otherwise,"  answered  my 
lady,  rising  and  dropping  him  a  curtsj^  in  which  stately'  action, 
if  there  was  obedience,  there  was  defiance  too ;  and  in  which 
a  bj^stander,  deepl}'  interested  in  the  happiness  of  that  pair  as 
Harry  Esmond  was,  might  see  how  hopelessly  separated  they 
were  ;  what  a  great  gulf  of  difference  and  discord  had  run  be- 
tween them. 

' '  By  G — d  !  Mohun  is  the  best  fellow  in  England  ;  and  I'll 
invite  him  here,  just  to  plague  that  woman.  Did  3'ou  ever  see 
such  a  frigid  insolence  as  it  is,  Harr}^?  That's  the  way  she 
treats  me,"  he  broke  out,  storming,  and  his  face  growing  red  as 
he  clenched  his  fists  and  went  on.  "  I'm  nobody  in  mj'  own 
house.  I'm  to  be  the  humble  servant  of  that  parson's  daughter. 
By  Jove !  I'd  rather  she  should  fling  the  dish  at  m}'  head  than 
sneer  at  me  as  she  does.  She  puts  me  to  shame  before  the 
children  with  her  d — d  airs  ;  and,  I'll  swear,  tells  Frank  and 
Beaty  that  papa's  a  reprobate,  and  that  they  ought  to  despise 
me." 

"  Indeed  and  indeed,  sir,  I  never  heard  her  say  a  word  but 
of  respect  regarding  you,"  Harry  Esmond  interposed. 

"No,  curse  it!  I  wish  she  would  speak.  But  she  never 
does.  She  scorns  me,  and  holds  her  tongue.  She  keeps  off 
from  me,  as  if  I  was  a  pestilence.  B3'  George !  she  was  fond 
enough  of  her  pestilence  once.  And  when  I  came  a-courting, 
you  would  see  miss  blush  —  blush  red,  by  George  !    for  joy. 


108  THE   HISTORY   OF   HENKY  ESMOND. 

Why,  what  do  you  think  she  said  to  me,  Harry?  She  said  her- 
self, when  I  joked  with  her  about  her  d — d  smiling  red  cheeks : 
'  'Tis  as  they  do  at  St.  James's  ;  I  put  up  m^^  red  flag  when  my 
king  comes.'  I  was  the  king,  3^ou  see,  she  meant.  But  now, 
sir,  look  at  her  !  I  believe  she  would  be  glad  if  I  was  dead  ; 
and  dead  I've  been  to  her  these  five  years  —  ever  since  you  all 
of  you  had  the  small-pox :  and  she  never  forgave  me  for  going 
away." 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  though  'twas  hard  to  forgive,  I  think  m}^ 
mistress  forgave  it,"  Harry  Esmond  said  ;  "  and  remember  how 
eagerh^  she  watched  your  lordship's  return,  and  how  sadly  she 
turned  away  when  she  saw  your  cold  looks." 

"  Damme  !  "  cries  out  m}^  lord  ;  "  would  you  have  had  me 
wait  and  catch  the  small-pox  ?  Where  the  deuce  had  been  the 
good  of  that  ?  I'll  bear  danger  with  any  man  —  but  not  useless 
danger  —  no,  no.  Thank  jou  for  nothing.  And  —  you  nod 
3'our  head,  and  I  know  very  well,  Parson  Harry,  what  you 
mean.  There  was  the  —  the  other  aff'air  to  make  her  angry. 
But  is  a  woman  never  to  forgive  a  husband  Who  goes  a-tripping? 
Do  you  take  me  for  a  saint?  " 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  do  not,"  saj's  Harry,  with  a  smile. 

"  Since  that  time  my  wife's  as  cold  as  the  statue  at  Charing 
Cross.  I  tell  thee  she  has  no  forgiveness  in  her,  Hemy.  Her 
coldness  blights  my  whole  life,  and  sends  me  to  the  punch-bowl, 
or  driving  about  the  country.  My  children  are  not  mine,  but 
hers,  when  we  are  together.  'Tis  only  when  she  is  out  of  sight 
with  her  abominable  cold  glances,  that  run  through  me,  that 
they'll  come  to  me,  and  that  I  dare  to  give  them  so  much  as  a 
kiss  ;  and  that's  why  I  take  'em  and  love  'em  in  other  people's 
houses,  Harry.  I'm  killed  by  the  very  virtue  of  that  proud 
woman.  Virtue!  give  me  the  virtue  that  can  forgive;  give 
me  the  virtue  that  thmks  not  of  preserving  itself,  but  of  making 
other  folks  happy.  Damme,  what  matters  a  scar  or  two  if  'tis 
got  in  helping  a  friend  in  ill  fortune  ?  " 

.  And  my  lord  again  slapped  the  table,  and  took  a  great 
draught  from  the  tankard.  Harry  Esmond  admired  as  he  listened 
to  him,  and  thought  how  the  poor  preacher  of  this  self-sacrifice 
had  fled  from  the  small-pox,  which  the  ladj'  had  borne  so  cheer- 
fullj',  and  which  had  been  the  cause  of  so  much  disunion  in  the 
lives  of  all  in  this  house.  "  How  well  men  preach,"  thought 
the  3'oung  man,  "  and  each  is  the  example  in  his  own  sermon. 
How  each  has  a  storj'  in  a  dispute,  and  a  true  one,  too,  and 
both  are  right  or  wrong  as  you  will!"     Harry's  heart  was 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  109 

pained  within  him,  to  watch  the  struggles  and  pangs  that  tore 
the  breast  of  this  kind,  manly  friend  and  protector. 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  said  he,  "I  wish  to  God  that  my  mistress 
could  hear  3'ou  speak  as  I  have  heard  3-ou  ;  she  would  know 
much  that  would  make  her  life  the  happier,  could  she  hear 
it."  But  my  lord  flung  away  with  one  of  his  oaths,  and  a  jeer  ; 
he  said  that  Parson  Harry  was  a  good  fellow ;  but  that  as  for 
women,  all  women  were  alike  —  all  jades  and  heartless.  So  a 
man  dashes  a  fine  vase  down,  and  despises  it  for  being  broken. 
It  may  be  worthless  —  true  :  but  who  had  the  keeping  of  it,  and 
who  shattered  it? 

Harry,  who  would  have  given  his  life  to  make  his  benefac- 
tress and  her  husband  happy,  bethought  him,  now  that  he  saw 
what  my  lord's  state  of  mind  was,  and  that  he  reall}'  had  a  great 
deal  of  that  love  left  in  his  heart,  and  read}^  for  his  wife's  ac- 
ceptance if  she  would  take  it,  whether  he  could  not  be  a  means 
of  reconciliation  between  these  two  persons,  whom  he  revered 
the  most  in  the  world.  And  he  cast  about  how  he  should  break 
a  part  of  his  mind  to  his  mistress,  and  warn  her  that  in  his, 
Harry's  opinion,  at  least,  her  husband  was  still  her  admirer, 
and  even  her  lover. 

But  he  found  the  subject  a  very  difficult  one  to  handle,  when 
he  ventured  to  remonstrate,  which  he  did  in  the  very  gravest 
tone,  (for  long  confidence  and  reiterated  proofs  of  devotion  and 
loyalty  had  given  him  a  sort  of  authority  in  the  house,  which  he 
resumed  as  soon  as  ever  he  returned  to  it,)  and  with  a  speech 
that  should  have  some  effect,  as.  indeed,  it  was  uttered  with  the 
speaker's  own  heart,  he  ventured  most  gently  to  hint  to  his 
adored  mistress  that  she  was  doing  her  husband  harm  b}'  her  ill 
opinion  of  him,  and  that  the  happiness  of  all  the  famil}'  depended 
upon  setting  her  right. 

She,  who  was  ordinarily  calm  and  most  gentle,  and  full  of 
smiles  and  soft  attentions,  flushed  up  when  young  Esmond  so 
spoke  to  her,  and  rose  from  her  chair,  looking  at  him  with  a 
haughtiness  and  indignation  that  he  had  never  before  known 
her  to  display.  She  was  quite  an  altered  being  for  that  mo- 
ment ;  and  looked  an  angr}^  princess  insulted  by  a  vassal. 

"  Have  3^ou  ever  heard  me  utter  a  word  in  my  lord's  dis- 
paragement?" she  asked  hastity,  hissing  out  her  words,  and 
stamping  her  foot. 

"  Indeed,  no,"  Esmond  said,  looking  down. 

"  Are  3'ou  come  to  me  as  his  ambassador  —  youV  she  con- 
tinued. 

' '  I  would  sooner  see  peace  between  you  than  anj^thing  else 


110  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEi^RY  ESMOND. 

in  the  world,"  Harr}^  answered,  "  and  would  go  of  any  embassy 
that  had  that  end." 

"  So  you  are  m}^  lord's  go-between?"  she  went  on,  not  re- 
garding this  speech.  "  You  are  sent  to  bid  me  back  into  slavery 
again,  and  inform  me  that  my  lord's  favor  is  graciously  restored 
to  his  handmaid?  He  is  weary  of  Covent  Garden,  is  he,  that 
he  comes  home  and  would  have  the  fatted  calf  killed  ?  " 

"  There's  good  authorit^^  for  it,  surely,"  said  Esmond. 

"  For  a  son,  yes  ;  but  my  lord  is  not  m}^  son.  It  was  he 
who  cast  me  away  from  him.  It  was  he  who  broke  our  happi- 
ness down,  and  he  bids  me  to  repair  it.  It  was  he  who  showed 
himself  to  me  at  last,  as  he  was,  not  as  I  had  thought  him.  It 
is  he  who  comes  before  my  children  stupid  and  senseless  with 
wine  —  who  leaves  our  company  for  that  of  frequenters  of 
taverns  and  bagnios  —  who  goes  from  his  home  to  the  City 
yonder  and  his  friends  there,  and  when  he  is  tired  of  them  re- 
turns hither,  and  expects  that  I  shall  kneel  and  welcome  him. 
And  he  sends  you  as  his  chamberlain  !  What  a  proud  embassy  ! 
Monsieur,  I  make  you  my  compliment  of  the  new  place." 

"  It  would  be  a  proud  embassy,  and  a  happ_y  embassy  too, 
could  I  bring  you  and  my  lord  together,"  Esmond  replied. 

"  I  presume  you  have  fulfilled  3'our  mission  now,  sir.  'Twas 
a  pretty  one  for  3'ou  to  undertake.  I  don't  know  whether  'tis 
3'our  Cambridge  philosophy,  or  time,  that  has  altered  j^our  waj's 
of  thinking,"  Lady  Castlewood  continued,  still  in  a  sarcastic 
tone.  "Perhaps  you  too  have  learned  to  love  drink,  and  to 
hiccup  over  your  wine  or  punch  ;  —  which  is  your  worship's 
favorite  liquor?  Perhaps  3'ou  too  put  up  at  the  '  Rose '  on  your 
way  to  London,  and  have  j^our  acquaintances  in  Covent  Garden. 
M}^  services  to  jou,  sir,  to  principal  and  ambassador,  to  master 
and  —  and  lacke3\" 

"Great  heavens!  madam,"  cried  Harr3^  "What  have  I 
done  that  thus,  for  a  second  time,  3'ou  insult  me?  Do  j^ou  wish 
me  to  blush  for  what  I  used  to  be  proud  of,  that  I  lived  on  your 
bounty  ?  Next  to  doing  3'ou  a  ser\ice  (which  my  life  would  pay 
for),  you  know  that  to  receive  one  from  3'ou  is  m3^  highest 
pleasure.  What  wrong  have  I  done  3'ou  that  3'ou  should  wound 
me  so,  cruel  woman?  " 

"What  wrong?"  she  said,  looking  at  Esmond  with  wild 
e3^es.  "  Well,  none  —  none  that  you  know  of,  Harr3^  or  could 
help.  Why  did  you  bring  back  the  small-pox,"  she  added, 
after  a  pause,  ' '  from  Castlewood  village  ?  You  could  not  help 
it,  could  you?  Which  of  us  knows  whither  fate  leads  us?  But 
we  were  all  happ\^,  Henry,  till  then."     And  Harr3'  went  away 


'^  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  Ill 

from  this  colloquy,  thinking  still  that  the  estrangement  between 
his  patron  and  his  beloved  mistress  was  remediable,  and  that 
each  had  at  heart  a  strong  attachment  to  the  other. 

The  intimacy  between  the  Lords  Mohun  and  Castlewood  ap- 
peared to  increase  as  long  as  the  former  remained  in  the  coun- 
tr}' ;  and  my  Lord  of  Castlewood  especially  seemed  never  to 
be  happy  out  of  his  new  comrade's  sight.  They  sported  to- 
gether, the\'  drank,  they  played  bowls  and  tennis  :  my  Lord 
Castlewood  would  go  for  three  days  to  Sark,  and  bring  back 
my  Lord  Mohun  to  Castlewood — where  indeed  his  lordship 
made  himself  very  welcome  to  all  persons,  having  a  joke  or 
a  new  game  at  romps  foi*  the  children,  all  the  talk  of  the  towu 
for  my  lord,  and  music  and  gallantry  and  plenty  of  the  beau 
langage  for  my  lady,  and  for  Harry  Esmond,  who  was  never 
tired  of  hearing  his  stories  of  his  campaigns  and  his  life  at 
Vienna,  Venice,  Paris,  and  the  famous  cities  of  Europe  which  he 
had  visited  both  in  peace  and  war.  And  he  sang  at  my  lady's 
harpsichord,  and  played  cards  or  backgammon,  or  his  new  game 
of  billiards  with  my  lord  (of  whom  he  invariabh'  got  the  better)  ; 
always  having  a  consummate  good-humor,  and  bearing  himself 
with  a  certain  manly  grace,  that  might  exhibit  somewhat  of 
the  camp  and  Alsatia  perhaps,  but  that  had  its  charm,  and 
stamped  him  a  gentleman :  and  his  manner  to  Lady  Castle- 
wood was  so  devoted  and  respectful,  that  she  soon  recovered 
from  the  first  feelings  of  dislike  which  she  had  conceived  against 
him  —  nay,  before  long,  began  to  be  interested  in  his  spiritual 
welfare,  and  hopeful  of  his  conversion,  lending  him  books  of 
piety,  which  he  promised  dutifully  to  study.  With  her  my  lord 
talked  of  reform,  of  settling  into  quiet  life,  quitting  the  court 
and  town,  and  buying  some  land  in  the  neighborhood  —  though 
it  must  be  owned  that,  when  the  two  lords  were  together  over 
their  Burgundy  after  dinner,  their  talk  was  very  different,  and 
there  was  ver}^  little  question  of  conversion  on  my  Lord 
Mohun's  part.  When  they  got  to  their  second  bottle^  Harry 
Esmond  used  commonl}'  to  leave  these  two  noble  topers,  who, 
though  they  talked  freely  enough,  heaven  knows,  in  his  pres- 
ence (Good  Lord,  what  a  set  of  stories,  of  Alsatia  and  Spring 
Garden,  of  the  taverns  and  gaming-houses,  of  the  ladies  of  the 
court,  and  mesdaraes  of  the  theatres,  he  can  recall  out  of  their 
godly  conversation  !)  — although,  I  say,  they  talked  before  Es- 
mond freely,  yet  they  seemed  pleased  when  he  went  away,  and 
then  they  had  another  bottle,  and  then  they  fell  to  cards,  and 
then  my  Lord  Mohun  came  to  her  ladyship's  drawing-room ; 
leaving  his  boon  companion  to  sleep  off  his  wine. 


112  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  >■ 

'Twas  a  point  of  honor  with  the  fine  gentlemen  of  those 
days  to  lose  or  win  magnificentlj'  at  their  horse-matches,  or 
games  of  cards  and  dice  —  and  yon  could  never  tell,  from  the 
demeanor  of  these  two  lords  afterwards,  which  had  been  suc- 
cessful and  which  the  loser  at  their  games.  And  when  my 
lady  hinted  to  my  lord  that  he  played  more  than  she  liked,  he 
dismissed  her  with  a  "  pish,"  and  swore  that  nothing  was  more 
equal  than  play  betwixt  gentlemen,  if  they  did  but  keep  it  up 
long  enough.  And  these  kept  it  up  long  enough,  3^ou  may  be 
sure.  A  man  of  fashion  of  that  time  often  passed  a  quarter 
of  his  day  at  cards,  and  another  quarter  at  drink  :  I  have  known 
many  a  pretty  fellow,  who  was  a  wit  too,  ready  of  repartee, 
and  possessed  of  a  thousand  graces,  who  would  be  puzzled 
if  he  had  to  write  more  than  his  name. 

There  is  scarce  any  thoughtful  man  or  woman,  I  suppose, 
but  can  look  back  upon  his  course  of  past  life,  and  remember 
some  point,  trifling  as  it  may  have  seemed  at  the  time  of  oc- 
currence, which  has  nevertheless  turned  and  altered  his  whole 
career.  'Tis  with  almost  all  of  us,  as  in  M.  Massillon's  mag- 
nificent image  regarding  King  William,  a  grain  de  sable  that 
perverts  or  perhaps  overthrows  us  ;  and  so  it  was  but  a  hght 
word  flung  in  the  air,  a  mere  freak  of  perverse  child's  temper, 
that  brought  down  a  whole  heap  of  crushing  woes  upon  that 
family  whereof  Harry  Esmond  formed  a  part. 

Coming  home  to  his  dear  Castlewood  in  the  third  year  of 
his  academical  course,  (wherein  he  had  now  obtained  some  dis- 
tinction, his  Latin  Poem  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Glouces- 
ter, Princess  Anne  of  Denmark's  son,  having  gained  him  a 
medal,  and  introduced  him  to  the  society"  of  the  University 
wits,)  Esmond  found  his  little  friend  and  pupil  Beatrix  grown 
to  be  taller  than  her  mother,  a  slim  and  lovely  young  girl,  with 
cheeks  mantling  with  health  and  roses :  with  eyes  like  stars 
shining  out  of  azure,  with  waving  bronze  hair  clustered  about 
the  fairest  young  forehead  ever  seen :  and  a  mien  and  shape 
haughty  and  beautiful,  such  as  that  of  the  famous  antique  statue 
of  the  huntress  Diana  —  at  one  time  haughty,  rapid,  imperious, 
with  ej^es  and  arrows  that  dart  and  kill.  Harry  watched  and 
wondered  at  this  3^oung  creature,  and  likened  her  in  his  mind 
to  Artemis  with  the  ringing  bow  and  shafts  flashing  death  upon 
the  children  of  Niobe ;  at  another  time  she  was  coy  and  melt- 
ing as  Luna  shining  tenderly  upon  Endymion.  This  fair  crea- 
ture, this  lustrous  Phoebe,  was  only  young  as  yet,  nor  had  nearly 
reached  her  full  splendor  :  but  crescent  and  brilliant,  our  young 
gentleman  of  the  University,  his  head  full  of  poetical  fancies, 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  113 

his  heart  perhaps  throbbing  with  desires  undefined,  admired 
this  rising  3^onng  divinity ;  and  gazed  at  her  (tliough  onty  as 
at  some  "bright  particular  star,"  far  above  his  earth)  with 
endless  delight  and  wonder.  She  had  been  a  coquette  from 
the  earliest  times  almost,  trying  her  freaks  and  jealousies,  her 
wayward  frolics  and  winning  caresses,  upon  all  that  came  within 
her  reach  ;  she  set  her  w^omen  quarrelling  in  the  nursery,  and 
practised  her  e3'es  on  the  groom  as  she  rode  behind  him  on  the 
pillion. 

She  was  the  darling  ,  and  torment  of  father  and  mother. 
She  intrigued  with  each  secretl}' ;  and  bestowed  her  fondness 
and  withdrew  it,  plied  them  with  tears,  smiles,  kisses,  cajole- 
ments ;  —  when  the  mother  was  angry,  as  happened  often,  flew 
to  the  father,  and  sheltering  behind  him,  pursued  her  victim  ; 
when  both  were  displeased,  transferred  her  caresses  to  the 
domestics,  or  watched  until  she  could  win  back  her  parents' 
good  graces,  either  b}'  surprising  them  into  laughter  and  good- 
humor,  or  appeasing  them  by  submission  and  artful  humilit3\ 
She  was  scevo  Iceta  negotio^  like  that  fickle  goddess  Horace  de- 
scribes, and  of  whose  "  malicious  joy"  a  great  poet  of  our  own 
has  written  so  nobly  —  who,  famous  and  heroic  as  he  was,  was 
not  strong  enough  to  resist  the  torture  of  women. 

It  was  but  three  years  l)efore  that  the  child,  then  but  ten 
years  old,  had  nearh'  managed  to  make  a  quarrel  between  Harry 
Esmond  and  his  comrade,  good-natured,  phlegmatic  Thomas 
Tusher,  who  never  of  his  own  seeking  quarrelled  with  anybody  : 
by  quoting  to  the  latter  some  silly  joke  which  Harry  had  made 
regarding  him  —  (it  was  the  merest  idlest  jest,  though  it  near 
drove  two  old  friends  to  blow^s,  and  I  think  such  a  battle  would 
have  pleased  her)  —  and  from  that  day  Tom  kept  at  a  distance 
from  her ;  and  she  respected  him,  and  coaxed  him  sedulously 
whenever  they  met.  But  Harry  was  much  more  easily  appeased, 
because  he  was  fonder  of  the  child :  and  when  she  made  mis- 
chief, used  cutting  speeches,  or  caused  her  friends  pain,  she 
excused  herself  for  her  fault,  not  b}^  admitting  and  deploring 
it,  but  by  pleading  not  guilt}',  and  asserting  innocence  so  con- 
stantl}^  and  with  such  seeming  artlessness,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  question  her  plea.  In  her  childhood,  they  were  but 
mischiefs  then  which  she  did  ;  but  her  power  became  more  fatal 
as  she  grew  older  —  as  a  kitten  first  plays  with  a  ball,  and  then 
pounces  on  a  bird  and  kills  it.  'Tis  not  to  be  imagined  that 
Harry  Esmond  had  all  this  experience  at  this  early  stage  of  his 
life,  whereof  he  is  now  writing  the  history  —  many  things  here 
noted  were  but  known  to  him  in  later  days.     Almost  every- 


114  THE  HISTOKY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

thing  Beatrix  did  or  undid  seemed  good,  or  at  least  pardonable, 
to  him  then,  and  years  afterwards. 

It  happened,  then,  that  Harry  Esmond  came  home  to  Cas- 
tlewood  for  his  last  vacation,  with  good  hopes  of  a  fellowship 
at  his  college,  and  a  contented  resolve  to  advance  his  fortune 
that  way.  'Twas  in  the  first  j-ear  of  the  present  century,  Mr. 
Esmond  (as  far  as  he  knew  the  period  of  his  birth)  being  then 
twenty-two  years  old.  He  found  his  quondam  pupil  shot  up 
into  this  beauty  of  which  we  have  spoken,  and  promising  j^et 
more :  her  brother,  my  lord's  son,  a  handsome  high-spirited 
brave  lad,  generous  and  frank,  and  kind  to  ever3'body,  save 
perhaps  his  sister,  with  whom  Frank  was  at  war  (and  not  from 
his  but  her  fault)  —  adoring  his  mother,  whose  joy  he  was : 
and  taking  her  side  in  the  unhapp}''  matrimonial  differences 
which  were  now  permanent,  while  of  course  Mistress  Beatrix 
ranged  with  her  father.  When  heads  of  famihes  fall  out,  it 
must  naturalh^  be  that  their  dependants  wear  the  one  or  the 
other  party's  color ;  and  even  in  the  parliaments  in  the  servants' 
hall  or  the  stables,  Hany,  who  had  an  earl}'  observant  turn, 
could  see  which  were  m}"  lord's  adherents  and  which  my  lady's, 
and  conjecture  pretty  shrewdl}^  how  their  unlucky  quarrel  was 
debated.  Our  lackeys  sit  in  judgment  on  us.  My  lord's 
intrigues  may  be  ever  so  stealthily  conducted,  but  his  valet 
knows  them ;  and  my  lady's  woman  carries  her  mistress's 
private  history  to  the  servants'  scandal  market,  and  exchanges 
it  against  the  secrets  of  other  abigails. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

MY   LORD    LEAVES    US    AND    HIS    EVIL    BEHIND    HIM. 

My  Lord  Mohun  (of  whose  exploits  and  fame  some  of  the 
gentlemen  of  the  Universit}'  had  brought  down  but  ugly  re- 
ports) was  once  more  a  guest  at  Castle  wood,  and  seemingly 
more  intimately  allied  with  m}^  lord  even  than  before.  Once  in 
the  spring  those  two  noblemen  had  ridden  to  Cambridge  from 
Newmarket,  whither  the}"  had  gone  for  the  horse-racing,  and 
had  honored  Harry  Esmond  with  a  visit  at  his  rooms  ;  after 
which  Doctor  Montague,  the  master  of  the  College,  who  had 
treated  Harry  somewhat  haughtily,  seeing  his  familiarity  with 
these  great  folks,  and  that  my  Lord  Castlewood  laughed  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HE^RY  ESMOND.  115 

walked  with  his  hand  on  Harry's  shoulder,  relented  to  Mr. 
Esmond,  and  condescended  to  be  very  civil  to  him  ;  and  some 
days  after  his  arrival,  Harry,  laughing,  told  this  story  to  Lady 
Esmond,  remarking  how  strange  it  was  that  men  famous  for 
learning  and  renowned  over  Europe,  should,  nevertheless,  so 
bow  down  to  a  title,  and  cringe  to  a  nobleman  ever  so  poor. 
At  this  Mistress  Beatrix  flung  up  her  head,  and  said  it  became 
those  of  low  origin  to  respect  their  betters  ;  that  the  parsons 
made  themselves  a  great  deal  too  proud,  she  thought ;  and 
that  she  liked  the  way  at  Lad}'-  Sark's  best,  where  the  chaplain, 
though  he  loved  pudding,  as  all  parsons  do,  always  went  away 
before  the  custard. 

"  And  when  I  am  a  parson,"  sa3'S  Mr.  Esmond,  "  will  you 
give  me  no  custard,  Beatrix?" 

"You  —  3'ou  are  different,"  Beatrix  answered.  "  You  are 
of  our  blood." 

"  My  father  was  a  parson,  as  you  call  him,"  said  m}^  lady. 

"But  mine  is  a  peer  of  Ireland,"  saj^s  Mistress  Beatrix, 
tossing  her  head.  "  Let  people  know  their  places.  I  suppose 
3^ou  will  have  me  go  down  on  my  knees  and  ask  a  blessing 
of  Mr.  Thomas  Tusher,  that  has  just  been  made  a  curate 
and  whose  mother  was  a  waiting-maid." 

And  she  tossed  out  of  the  room,  being  in  one  of  her  flighty 
humors  then. 

When  she  was  gone,  my  lady  looked  so  sad  and  grave,  that 
Harry  asked  the  cause  of  her  disquietude.  She  said  it  was  not 
merel}^  what  he  said  of  Newmarket,  but  what  she  had  remarked, 
with  great  anxiety  and  terror,  that  m}^  lord,  ever  since  his 
acquaintance  with  the  Lord  Mohun  especiall}-,  had  recurred 
to  his  fondness  for  play,  which  he  had  renounced  since  his 
marriage. 

"But  men  promise  more  than  they  are  able  to  perform  in 
marriage,"  said  my  lady,  with  a  sigh.  "I  fear  he  has  lost 
large  sums  ;  and  our  propert}',  always  small,  is  dwindling  away 
under  this  reckless  dissipation.  I  heard  of  him  in  London  with 
very  wild  compan}^  Since  his  return  letters  and  lawyers  are 
constantlj^  coming  and  going :  he  seems  to  me  to  have  a  con- 
stant anxiet}',  though  he  hides  it  under  boisterousness  and 
laughter.  I  looked  through  —  through  the  door  last  night,  and 
—  and  before,"  said  my  lady,  "and  saw  them  at  cards  after 
midnight ;  no  estate  will  bear  that  extravagance,  much  less 
ours,  which  will  be  so  diminished  that  my  son  will  have  nothing 
at  all,  and  m}'  poor  Beatrix  no  portion  !  " 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  madam,"  said  Harry  Esmond, 


116  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

sighing,  and  wishing  that  unavailinglj,  and  for  the  thousandth 
time  in  his  life. 

''  Who  can  ?  Onlj^  God,"  said  Lady  Esmond  —  "  onlj'  God, 
in  whose  hands  we  are."  And  so  it  is,  and  for  his  rule  over 
his  famil}',  and  for  his  conduct  to  wife  and  children  —  subjects 
over  whom  his  power  is  monarchical  —  any  one  who  watches 
the  world  must  think  with  trembling  sometimes  of  the  account 
which  many  a  man  will  have  to  render.  For  in  our  society 
there's  no  law  to  control  the  King  of  the  Fireside.  He  is  mas- 
ter of  property,  happiness  —  life  almost.  He  is  free  to  punish, 
to  make  happy  or  unhappy  —  to  ruin  or  to  torture.  He  may 
kill  a  wife  gradually,  and  be  no  more  questioned  than  the 
Grand  Seignior  who  drowns  a  slave  at  midnight.  He  may 
make  slaves  and  hypocrites  of  his  children ;  or  friends  and 
freemen  ;  or  drive  them  into  revolt  and  enmity  against  the  nat- 
ural law  of  love.  I  have  heard  politicians  and  coffee-house 
wiseacres  talking  over  the  newspaper,  and  railing  at  the  tyranny 
of  the  French  King,  and  the  Emperor,  and  wondered  how  these 
(who  are  monarchs,  too,  in  their  wa}')  govern  their  own  domin- 
ions at  home,  where  each  man  rules  absolute.  When  the  an- 
nals of  each  little  reign  are  shown  to  the  Supreme  Master, 
under  whom  we  hold  sovereignt}-,  histories  will  be  laid  bare  of 
household  t3'rants  as  cruel  as  Amurath,  and  as  savage  as  Nero, 
and  as  reckless  and  dissolute  as  Charles. 

If  Hany  Esmond's  patron  erred,  'twas  in  the  latter  wa}', 
from  a  disposition  rather  self-indulgent  than  cruel ;  and  he 
might  have  been  brought  back  to  much  better  feelings,  had 
time  been  given  to  him  to  bring  his  repentance  to  a  lasting 
reform. 

As  m}^  lord  and  his  friend  Lord  Mohun  were  such  close  com- 
panions. Mistress  Beatrix  chose  to  be  jealous  of  the  latter  ;  and 
the  two  gentlemen  often  entertained  each  other  b}'  laughing,  in 
their  rude  boisterous  way,  at  the  child's  freaks  of  anger  and 
show  of  dislike.  "  When  thou  art  old  enough,  thou  shalt  marry 
Lord  Mohun,"  Beatrix's  father  would  say :  on  which  the  girl 
would  pout  and  say,  "  I  would  rather  marry  Tom  Tusher." 
And  because  the  Lord  Mohun  always  showed  an  extreme  gal- 
lantry to  my  Lady  Castlewood,  whom  he  professed  to  admire 
devotedl}^  one  da}^,  in  answer  to  this  old  joke  of  her  father's, 
Beatrix  said,  ''I  think  my  lord  would  rather  many  mamma 
than  marry  me  ;  and  is  waiting  till  you  die  to  ask  her." 

The  words  were  said  lightly  and  pertly  by  the  girl  one  night 
before  supper,  as  the  family  part}"  were  assembled  near  the 
great  fire.     The  two  lords-,  who  were  at  cards,  both  gave  a 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  117 

start ;  mj'  lady  turned  as  red  as  scarlet,  and  bade  Mistress 
Beatrix  go  to  her  own  chamber ;  whereupon  the  girl,  putting 
on,  as  her  wont  was,  the  most  innocent  air,  said,  "  I  am  sure  I 
meant  no  wrong ;  I  am  sure  mamma  talks  a  great  deal  more 
to  Harry  Esmond  than  she  does  to  papa  —  and  she  cried 
when  Harr3^  went  away,  and  she  never  does  when  papa  goes 
away  !  and  last  night  she  talked  to  Lord  Mohun  for  CA^er  so 
long,  and  sent  us  out  of  the  room,  and  cried  when  we  came 
back,  and  —  " 

"  D — n  !  "  cried  out  my  Lord  Castlewood,  out  of  all  patience. 
*'  Go  out  of  the  room,  you  little  viper  !  "  and  he  started  up  and 
flung  down  his  cards. 

''  Ask  Lord  Mohun  what  I  said  to  him,  Francis,"  her  lad}'- 
ship  said,  rising  up  with  a  scared  face,  but  yet  with  a  great  and 
touching  dignit}^  and  candor  in  her  look  and  voice.  "Come 
awaj'  with  me,  Beatrix."  Beatrix  sprung  up  too ;  she  was  in 
tears  now. 

"  Dearest  mamma,  what  have  I  done?"  she  asked.  "  Sure 
I  meant  no  harm."  And  she  clung  to  her  mother,  and  the  pair 
went  out  sobbinoj  too^ether. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  your  wife  said  to  me,  Frank,"  my  Lord 
Mohun  cried.  "Parson  Harry  may  hear  it;  and,  as  I  hope 
for  heaven,  every  word  I  say  is  true.  Last  night,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  your  wife  implored  me  to  pla}^  no  more  with  you  at 
dice  or  at  cards,  and  you  know  best  whether  what  she  asked  was 
not  for  your  good." 

"Of  course,  it  was,  Mohun,"  says  my  lord  in  a  dry  hard 
voice.  "  Of  course  you  are  a  model  of  a  man  :  and  the  world 
knows  what  a  saint  3'ou  are." 

My  Lord  Mohun  was  separated  from  his  wife,  and  had  had 
many  affairs  of  honor :  of  which  women  as  usual  had  been  the 
cause. 

"  I  am  no  saint,  though  3'our  wife  is  —  and  I  can  answer 
for  my  actions  as  other  people  must  for  their  words,"  said  m}^ 
Lord  Mohun. 

"  By  G— ,  my  lord,  you  shall,"  cried  the  other,  starting  up. 

"We  have  another  Uttle  account  to  settle  first,  my  lord," 
says  Lord  Mohun.  Whereupon  Harry  Esmond,  filled  with 
alarm  for  the  consequences  to  which  this  disastrous  dispute 
might  lead,  broke  out  into  the  most  vehement  expostulations 
with  his  patron  and  his  adversar3\  "  Gracious  heavens  !  "  he 
said,  "my  lord,  are  you  going  to  draw  a  sword  upon  3- our 
friend  in  your  own  house?  Can  3^ou  doubt  the  honor  of  a 
lady  who  is  as  pure  as  heaven,  and  would  die  a  thousand  times 


118  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

rather  than  do  you  a  wrong  ?  Are  the  idle  words  of  a  jealous 
child  to  set  friends  at  variance  ?  Has  not  my  mistress,  as  much 
as  she  dared  do,  besought  your  lordship,  as  the  truth  must  be 
told,  to  break  your  intimacy  with  my  Lord  Mohun  ;  and  to  give 
up  the  habit  which  may  bring  ruin  on  3'our  famil}^  ?  But  for 
my  Lord  Mohun's  illness,  had  he  not  left  you?" 

"  'Faith,  Frank,  a  man  with  a  gouty  toe  can't  run  after  other 
men's  wives,"  broke  out  my  Lord  Mohun,  who  indeed  was  in 
that  wa3' ,  and  with  a  laugh  and  a  look  at  his  swathed  limb  so 
frank  and  comical,  that  the  other  dashing  his  fist  across  his 
forehead  was  caught  by  that  infectious  good-humor,  and  said 

with  his  oath,  '^ it,  Hany,  I  believe  thee,"  and  so  this 

quarrel  was  over,  and  the  two  gentlemen,  at  swords  drawn  but 
just  now,  dropped  their  points,  and  shook  hands. 

Bead  pacijici.  "Go,  bring  my  lady  back,"  said  Harry's 
patron.  Esmond  went  away  onl}^  too  glad  to  be  the  bearer  of 
such  good  news.  He  found  her  at  the  door ;  she  had  been 
listening  there,  but  went  back  as  he  came.  She  took  both  his 
hands,  hers  were  marble  cold.  She  seemed  as  if  she  would  fall 
on  his  shoulder.  ''Thank  you,  and  God  bless  you,  m}'  dear 
brother  Harry,"  she  said.  She  kissed  his  hand,  Esmond  felt 
her  tears  upon  it :  and  leading  her  into  the  room,  and  up  to  my 
lord,  the  Lord  Castle  wood,  with  an  outbreak  of  feeling  and 
affection  such  as  he  had  not  exhibited  for  many  a  long  day,  took 
his  wife  to  his  heart,  and  bent  over  and  kissed  her  and  asked 
her  pardon. 

" 'Tis  time  for  me  to  go  to  roost.  I  will  have  my  gruel 
a-bed,"  said  my  Lord  Mohun :  and  limped  off  comically  on 
Harry  Esmond's  arm.  "  By  George,  that  woman  is  a  pearl !  '* 
he  said  ;  "  and  'tis  only  a  pig  that  wouldn't  value  her.  Have 
you  seen  the  vulgar  traipsing  orange-girl  whom  Esmond  "  —  but 
here  Mr.  Esmond  interrupted  him,  saying,  that  these  were  not 
affairs  for  him  to  know. 

My  lord's  gentleman  came  in  to  wait  upon  his  master,  who 
was  no  sooner  in  his  nightcap  and  dressing-gown  than  he  had 
another  visitor  whom  his  host  insisted  on  sending  to  him  :  and 
this  was  no  other  than  the  Lady  Castlewood  herself  with  the 
toast  and  gruel,  which  her  husband  bade  her  make  and  carry 
with  her  own  hands  in  to  her  guest. 

Lord  Castlewood  stood  looking  after  his  wife  as  she  went 
on  this  errand,  and  as  he  looked,  Harry  Esmond  could  not  but 
gaze  on  him,  and  remarked  in  his  patron's  face  an  expression 
of  love,  and  grief,  and  care,  which  yery  much  moved  and 
touched  the  young  man.     Lord  Castlewood's  hands  fell  down 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  119 

at  his  sides,  and  his  head  on  his  breast,  and  presently  he 
said,  — 

''  You  heard  what  Mohan  said,  parson?  " 

"  That  m}'  lady  was  a  saint?  " 

''  That  there  are  two  accounts  to  settle.  I  have  been  going 
wrong  these  five  years,  Harry  Esmond.  Ever  since  3'ou  brought 
that  damned  small-pox  into  the  house,  there  has  been  a  fate 
pursuing  me,  and  I  had  best  have  died  of  it,  and  not  run  away 
from  it  like  a  coward.  I  left  Beatrix  with  her  relations,  and 
went  to  London  ;  and  I  fell  among  thieves,  Harry,  and  I  got 
back  to  confounded  cards  and  dice,  which  I  hadn't  touched 
since  m}"  marriage  —  no,  not  since  I  was  in  the  Duke's  Guard, 
with  those  wild  Mohocks.  And  I  have  been  playing  worse 
and  worse,  and  going  deeper  and  deeper  into  it ;  and  I  owe 
Mohun  two  thousand  pounds  now ;  and  when  it's  paid  I  am 
little  better  than  a  beggar.  I  don't  like  to  look  m3'^  boy  in  the 
face  ;  he  hates  me,  I  know  he  does.  And  I  have  spent  Beaty's 
little  portion :  and  the  Lord  knows  what  will  come  if  I  live ; 
the  best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  die,  and  release  what  portion  of 
the  estate  is  redeemable  for  the  bo3\" 

Mohun  was  as  much  master  at  Castlewood  as  the  owner  of 
the  Hall  itself;  and  his  equipages  filled  the  stables,  where,  in- 
deed, there  was  room  and  plent}-^  for  rnan}^  more  horses  than 
Harr^'  Esmond's  impoverished  patron  could  afford  to  keep. 
He  had  arrived  on  horseback  with  his  people  ;  but  when  his 
gout  broke  out  m}^  Lord  Mohun  sent  to  London  for  a  light 
chaise  he  had,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  small  horses,  and  running 
as  swift,  wherever  roads  were  good,  as  a  Laplander's  sledge. 
When  this  carriage  came,  his  lordship  was  eager  to  drive  the 
Lad^^  Castlewood  abroad  in  it,  and  did  so  many  times,  and  at  a 
rapid  pace,  greatlj-  to  his  companion's  enjoyment,  who  loved  the 
swift  motion  and  the  healthy  breezes  over  the  dowais  which  lie 
hard  upon  Castlewood,  and  stretch  thence  towards  the  sea. 
As  this  amusement  was  ver}'  pleasant  to  her,  and  her  lord,  far 
from  showing  any  mistrust  of  her  intimacy  with  Lord  Mohun, 
encouraged  her  to  be  his  companion  —  as  if  wdlHng  by  his  present 
extreme  confidence  to  make  up  for  any  past  mistrust  which  his 
jealousy  had  shown  —  the  Lady  Castlewood  enjo3'ed  herself  freely 
in  this  harmless  diversion,  which,  it  must  be  owned,  her  guest 
was  ver3'  eager  to  give  her  ;  and  it  seemed  that  she  grew  the  more 
free  with  Lord  Mohun,  and  pleased  w4th  his  companv,  because 
of  some  sacrifice  w^hich  his  gallantr3'  w^as  pleased  to  make  in  her 
favor. 

Seeing  the  two  gentlemen  constantl3'  at  cards  still  of  even- 


120  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

ings,  Harry  Esmond  one  day  deplored  to  his  mistress  that  this 
fatal  infatuation  of  her  lord  should  continue ;  and  now  they 
seemed  reconciled  together,  begged  his  lady  to  hint  to  her  hus- 
band that  he  should  play  no  more. 

But  Lady  Castle  wood,  smiling  archly  and  gayly,  said  she 
would  speali  to  him  presently,  and  that,  for  a  few  nights  more 
at  least,  he  might  be  let  to  have  his  amusement. 

"Indeed,  madam,"  said  Harr}^,  "  3  ou  know  not  what  it 
costs  you  ;  and  'tis  easy  for  any  observer  who  knows  the  game, 
to  see  that  Lord  Mohun  is  by  far  the  stronger  of  the  two." 

"  I  know  he  is,"  says  my  lady,  still  with  exceeding  good- 
humor  ;  "  he  is  not  only  the  best  pla3'er,  but  the  kindest  player 
in  the  world." 

"  Madam,  madam  !"  Esmond  cried,  transported  and  pro- 
voked. "  Debts  of  honor  must  be  paid  some  time  or  other; 
and  my  master  will  be  ruined  if  he  goes  on." 

"  Harr}',  shall  I  tell  3'ou  a  secret?"  my  lad3"  replied,  with 
kindness  and  pleasure  still  in  her  eyes.  '^  Francis  will  not  be 
ruined  if  he  goes  on ;  he  will  be  rescued  if  he  goes  on.  I 
repent  of  having  spoken  and  thought  unkindty  of  the  Lord 
Mohun  when  he  was  here  in  the  past  3'ear.  He  is  full  of  much 
kindness  and  good  ;  and  'tis  m3^  belief  that  we  shall  bring  him 
to  better  things.  I  have  lent  him  '  Tillotson '  and  your  favorite 
*  Bishop  Taylor,'  and  he  is  much  touched,  he  sa3's ;  and  as  a 
proof  of  his  repentance  —  (and  herein  lies  my  secret)  —  what 
do  3'ou  think  he  is  doing  with  Francis  ?  He  is  letting  poor 
Frank  win  his  money  back  again.  He  hath  won  already  at  the 
last  four  nights  ;  and  mv  Lord  Mohun  sa3's  that  he  wiU  not  be 
the  means  of  injuring  poor  Frank  and  m\' dear  children." 

"  And  in  God's  name,  what  do  3'ou  return  him  for  the  sacri- 
fice?" asked  Esmond,  aghast;  who  knew  enough  of  men,  and 
of  this  one  in  particular,  to  be  aware  that  such  a  finished  rake 
gave  nothing  for  nothing.  "  How,  in  heaven's  name,  are  you 
to  pa3'  him  ?  " 

'*  Pay  him  !  With  a  mother's  blessing  and  a  wife's  prayers  !  " 
cries  my  lad\',  clasping  her  hands  together.  Harr3^  Esmond 
did  not  know  whether  to  laugh,  to  be  angr3^,  or  to  love  his  dear 
mistress  more  than  ever  for  the  obstinate  innocency  with  which 
she  chose  to  regard  the  conduct  of  a  man  of  the  world,  whose 
designs  he  knew  better  how  to  interpret.  He  told  the  lad3% 
guardedly,  but  so  as  to  make  his  meaning  quite  clear  to  her, 
what  he  knew  in  respect  of  the  former  life  and  conduct  of  this 
nobleman  ;  of  other  women  against  whom  he  had  plotted,  and 
whom  he  had  overcome ;  of  the  conversation  which  he,  Harry 


THE  HISTORY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  121 

himself,  had  had  with  Lord  Mohun,  wherein  the  lord  made  a 
boast  of  his  libertinism,  and  frequently  avowed  that  he  held  all 
women  to  be  fair  game  (as  his  lordship  styled  this  pretty  sport), 
and  that  they  were  all,  without  exception,  to  be  won.  And  the 
return  Harry  had.  for  his  entreaties  and  remonstrances  was  a 
fit  of  anger  on  Lady  Castlewood's  part,  who  would  not  listen 
to  his  accusations  ;  she  said  and  retorted  that  he  himself  must 
be  ver}'  wicked  and  perA'crted  to  suppose  evil  designs  where  she 
was  sure  none  were  meant.  "And  this  is  the  good  meddlers 
get  of  interfering,"  Harry  thought  to  himself  with  much  bitter- 
ness ;  and  his  perplexity  and  annoyance  were  only  the  greater, 
because  he  could  not  speak  to  my  Lord  Castle  wood  himself 
upon  a  subject  of  this  nature,  or  venture  to  advise  or  warn  him 
regarding  a  matter  so  very  sacred  as  his  own  honor,  of  which 
my  lord  was  naturally'  the  best  guardian. 

But  though  Lady  Castlewood  would  listen  to  no  advice  from 
her  ycung  dependant,  and  appeared  indignantly  to  refuse  it 
when  offered,  Harry  had  the  satisfaction  to  find  that  she  adopted 
the  counsel  which  she  professed  to  reject ;  for  tlie  next  day  she 
pleaded  a  headache,  when  my  Lord  Mohun  would  have  had  her 
drive  out,  and  the  next  day  the  headache  continued  ;  and  next 
day,  in  a  laughing  gay  way,  she  proposed  that  the  children 
should  take  her  place  in  his  lordship's  car,  for  they  would  be 
charmed  with  a  ride  of  all  things ;  and  she  must  not  have  all 
the  pleasure  for  herself.  My  lord  gave  them  a  drive  with  a  very 
good  grace,  though,  I  dare  say,  with  rage  and  disappointment 
inwardl}' — not  that  his  heart  was  very  seriously  engaged  in 
his  designs  upon  this  simple  lady :  but  the  life  of  such  men  is 
often  one  of  intrigue,  and  the}^  can  no  more  go  through  the  day 
without  a  woman  to  pursue,  than  a  fox-hunter  without  his  sport 
after  breakfast. 

Under  an  affected  carelessness  of  demeanor,  and  though 
there  was  no  outward  demonstration  of  doubt  upon  his  patron's 
part  since  the  quarrel  between  the  two  lords,  Harry  yet  saw 
that  Lord  Castlewood  was  watching  his  guest  very  narrow]}'  ; 
and  caught  sight  of  distrust  and  smothered  rage  (as  Harry 
thought)  which  foicboded  no  good.  On  the  point  of  honor 
Esmond  knew  how  touchy  his  patron  was  ;  and  watched  him 
almost  as  a  physician  watches  a  patient,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  this  one  was  slow  to  take  the  disease,  though  he  could  not 
throw  off  the  poison  when  once  it  had  mingled  with  his  blood. 
We  read  in  Shakspeare  (whom  the  writer  for  his  part  considers 
to  be  far  beyond  Mr.  Congreve,  Mr.  Dryden.  or  any  of  the  wits 
of  the  present  period,)  that  when  jealousy  is  once  declared,  nor 


122  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

poppy,  nor  mandragora,  nor  all  the  drowsy-  syrups  of  the  East, 
will  ever  soothe  it  or  medicine  it  away. 

In  fine,  the  symptoms  seemed  to  be  so  alarming  to  this 
young  physician  (who,  indeed,  young  as  he  was,  had  felt  the 
kind  pulses  of  all  those  dear  kinsmen) ,  that  Harry  thought  it 
would  be  his  duty  to  warn  my  Lord  Mohun,  and  let  him  know 
that  his  designs  were  suspected  and  watched.  So  one  da}', 
when  in  rather  a  pettish  humor  his  lordship  had  sent  to  Lady 
Castle  wood,  who  had  promised  to  drive  with  him,  and  now 
refused  to  come,  Harry  said  —  ''My  lord,  if  you  will  kindly 
give  me  a  place  by  your  side  I  will  thank  you  ;  I  have  much  to 
say  to  you,  and  would  like  to  speak  to  you  alone." 

"You  honor  me  by  giving  me  your  confidence,  Mr.  Henry 
Esmond,"  says  the  other,  with  a  very  grand  bow.  My  lord  was 
always  a  fine  gentleman,  and  young  as  he  was  there  was  that 
in  Esmond's  manner  which  showed  that  he  was  a  gentleman  too, 
and  that  none  might  take  a  liberty  with  him  —  so  the  pair  went 
out,  and  mounted  the  little  carriage,  which  was  in  waiting  for 
them  in  the  court,  with  its  two  little  cream-colored  Hanoverian 
horses  covered  with  splendid  furniture  and  champing  at  the  bit. 

"  M}'  lord,"  says  Harry  Esmond,  after  ihey  were  got  into 
the  country,  and  pointing  to  my  Lord  Mohun's  foot,  which  was 
swathed  in  flannel,  and  put  up  rather  ostentatiously  on  a  cushion 
—  "  my  lord,  I  studied  medicine  at  Cambridge." 

"  Indeed,  Parson  Harr}',"  says  he  ;  "  and  are  3'ou  going  to 
take  out  a  diploma  :  and  cure  j'our  fellow-students  of  the  —  " 

"  Of  the  gout,"  says  Harry,  interrupthig  him,  and  looking 
him  hard  in  the  face  ;   "  I  know  a  good  deal  about  the  gout." 

"  I  hope  you  ma}'  never  have  it.  'Tis  an  infernal  disease," 
says  my  lord,  "  and  its  twinges  are  diabolical.  Ah  I  "  and  he 
made  a  dreadful  wry  face,  as  if  he  just  felt  a  twinge. 

' '  Your  lordship  would  be  much  better  if  you  took  oflT  all  that 
flannel  —  it  only  serves  to  inflame  the  toe,"  Harry  continued, 
looking  his  man  full  in  the  face. 

"Oh!  it  only  serves  to  inflame  the  toe,  does  it?"  says  the 
other,  with  an  innocent  air. 

"  If  3'ou  took  oflT  that  flannel,  and  flung  that  absurd  slipper 
away,  and  wore  a  boot,"  continues  Harr3^ 

"  You  recommend  me  boots,  Mr.  Esmond?  "  asks  my  lord. 

"Yes,  boots  and  spurs.  I  saw  your  lordship  three  days 
ago  run  down  the  gallery  fast  enough,"  Hany  goes  on.  "  I  am 
sure  that  taking  gruel  at  night  is  not  so  pleasant  as  claret  to 
your  lordship  ;  and  besides  it  keeps  your  lordship's  head  cool 
for  pla}',  whilst  my  patron's  is  hot  and  flustered  with  drink." 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  123 

'''Sdeath,  sir,  3^011  dare  not  say  that  I  don't  play  fair?" 
cries  my  lord,  whipping  his  horses,  which  went  away  at  a 
gallop. 

"  You  are  cool  when  my  lord  is  drunk,"  Harr}'  continued  ; 
"  your  lordship  gets  the  better  of  my  patron.  I  have  watched 
you  as  I  looked  up  from  my  books." 

"  You  young  Argus  !  "  says  Lord  Mohun,  who  liked  Harry 
Esmond  —  and  for  whose  company  and  wit,  and  a  certain  daring 
manner,  Harry  had  a  great  liking  too  —  "  You  young  Argus  ! 
you  may  look  with  all  your  hundred  e3'es  and  see  we  play  fair. 
I've  played  awa}^  an  estate  of  a  night,  and  I've  played  my 
shirt  off  m}'  back  ;  and  I've  played  away  my  periwig  and  gone 
home  in  a  nightcap.  But  no  man  can  say  I  ever  took  an 
advantage  of  him  beyond  the  advantage  of  the  game.  I  played 
a  dice-cogging  scoundrel  in  Alsatia  for  his  ears  and  won  'em, 
and  have  one  of  'em  in  m}'  lodging  in  Bow  Street  in  a  bottle 
of  spirits.  Harry  Mohun  will  play  any  man  for  anything  — 
always  would." 

"  You  are  playing  awful  stakes,  my  lord,  in  my  patron's 
house,"  Harry  said,  ''  and  more  games  than  are  on  tlie  cards." 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  cries  my  lord,  turning  round, 
with  a  flush  on  his  face. 

"  I  mean,"  answers  Harry,  in  a  sarcastic  tone,  "  that  your 
gout  is  well  —  if  ever  3'ou  had  it." 

"  Sir  !  "  cried  my  lord,  getting  hot. 

"  And  to  tell  the  truth  I  believe  your  lordship  has  no  more 
gout  than  I  have.  At  any  rate,  change  of  air  will  do  you  good, 
m}^  Lord  Mohun.  And  I  mean  fairly  that  j^ou  had  better  go 
from  Castlewood." 

"  And  were  3'ou  appointed  to  give  me  this  message?  "  cries 
the  Lord  Mohun.     "  Did  Frank  Esmond  commission  3'ou?  " 

"  No  one  did.  'Twas  the  honor  of  my  familj^  that  commis- 
sioned me." 

' '  And  you  are  prepared  to  answer  this  ?  "  cries  the  other, 
furiously  lashing  his  horses. 

"Quite,  my  lord:  your  lordship  will  upset  the  carriage  if 
you  whip  so  hotly." 

"  By  George,  3^ou  have  a  brave  spirit !  "  m3^  lord  cried  out, 
bursting  into  a  laugh.  "  I  suppose  'tis  that  infernal  botte  de 
Jesuite  that  makes  you  so  bold,"  he  added. 

" 'Tis  the  peace  of  the  family  I  love  best  in  the  world," 
Harry  Esmond  said  warmh^ —  "  'tis  the  honor  of  a  noble  bene- 
factor—  the  happiness  of  m3'' dear  mistress  and  her  children. 
I  owe  thera  everything  in  life,  mj^  lord  ;  and  would  lay  it  down 


124  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

for  any  one  of  them.  What  brings  3'ou  here  to  disturb  this 
quiet  household?  What  keeps  ^'ou  Hngering  month  after 
month  in  the  country?  What  makes  you  feign  ilhiess,  and  in- 
vent pretexts  for  delay?  Is  it  to  win  my  poor  patron's  money  ? 
Be  generous,  m}'  lord,  and  spare  his  weakness  for  the  sake  of 
his  wife  and  children.  Is  it  to  practise  upon  the  simple  heart 
of  a  vir^^uous  lady?  You  might  as  well  storm  the  Tower  single- 
handed.  But  you  may  blemish  her  name  by  light  comments 
on  it,  or  by  lawless  pursuits  —  and  I  don't  deny  that  'tis  in 
your  power  to  make  her  unhapp3\  Spare  these  innocent  peo- 
ple, and  leave  them." 

"By  the  Lord,  I  believe  thou  hast  an  eye  to  the  pretty 
Puritan  thyself.  Master  Harr}',"  saj's  my  lord,  with  his  reckless, 
good-humored  laugh,  and  as  if  he  had  been  listening  with  in- 
terest to  the  passionate  appeal  of  the  young  man.  ''  Whisper, 
Harry.  Art  thou  in  love  with  her  thyself?  Hath  tipsy  Frank 
Esmond  come  by  the  way  of  all  flesh?  " 

"  My  lord,  my  lord,"  cried  Harr\%  his  face  flushing  and  his 
e3'es  filling  as  he  spoke,  "  I  never  had  a  mother,  but  I  love 
this  lady  as  one.  I  worship  her  as  a  devotee  worships  a  saint. 
To  hear  her  name  spoken  lightl}'  seems  blasphemy  to  me. 
Would  you  dare  think  of  your  own  mother  so,  or  suff'er  an^^  one 
so  to  speak  of  her?  It  is  a  horror  to  me  to  fancy  that  an^^  man 
should  think  of  her  impurel}'.  I  implore  you,  I  beseech  you, 
to  leave  her.     Danger  will  come  out  of  it." 

"Danger,  psha !  "  says  mj^  lord,  giving  a  cut  to  the  horses, 
which  at  this  minute  —  for  we  were  got  on  to  the  Downs  — 
fairly  ran  off  into  a  gallop  that  no  pulling  could  stop.  The 
rein  broke  in  Lord  Mohun's  hands,  and  the  furious  beasts 
scampered  madl}^  forwards,  the  carriage  swaying  to  and  fro, 
and  the  persons  within  it  holding  on  to  the  sides  as  best  they 
might,  until  seeing  a  great  ravine  before  them,  where  an  upset 
was  inevitable,  the  two  gentlemen  leapt  for  their  lives,  each 
out  of  his  side  of  the  chaise.  Harr\'  Esmond  was  quit  for  a  fall 
on  the  grass,  which  was  so  severe  that  it  stunned  him  for  a 
minute  ;  but  he  got  up  presently  ver^^  sick,  and  bleeding  at  the 
nose,  but  with  no  other  hurt.  The  Lord  Mohun  was  not  so 
fortunate ;  he  fell  on  his  head  against  a  stone,  and  lay  on  the 
ground,  dead  to  all  appearance. 

This  misadventure  happened  as  the  gentlemen  were  on  their 
return  homewards  ;  and  my  Lord  Castlewood,  with  his  son  and 
daughter,  who  were  going  out  for  a  ride,  met  the  ponies  as 
they  were  galloping  with  the  car  behind,  the  broken  traces  en- 
tangling their  heels,  and  my  lord's  people  turned  and  stopped 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  125 

them.  It  was  3'oung  Frank  who  spied  out  Lord  Mohun's  scar- 
let coat  as  he  la}'  on  the  ground,  and  the  party  made  up  to  that 
unfortunate  gentleman  and  Esmond,  who  was  now  standing 
over.  him.  His  large  periwig  and  feathered  hat  had  fallen  off", 
and  he  was  bleeding  pro  fusel}'  from  a  wound  on  the  forehead, 
and  looking,  and  being,  indeed,  a  corpse. 

"Great  God!  he's  dead!"  saj's  my  lord.  "Ride,  some 
one :  fetch  a  doctor  —  stay.  Ell  go  home  and  bring  back 
Tusher ;  he  knows  surgery,"  and  my  lord,  with  his  son  after 
him,  galloped  away. 

They  were  scarce  gone  when  Harry  Esmond,  who  was  in- 
deed but  just  come  to  himself,  bethought  him  of  a  similar  acci- 
dent which  he  had  seen  on  a  ride  from  Newaiarket  to  Cam- 
bridge, and  taking  off  a  sleeve  of  my  lord's  coat,  Elarr}^  with  a 
penknife,  opened  a  vein  of  his  arm,  and  was  greatl}'  relieved, 
after  a  moment,  to  see  the  blood  flow.  He  was  near  half  an 
hour  before  he  came  to  himself,  by  which  time  Doctor  Tusher 
and  httle  Frank  arrived,  and  found  my  lord  not  a  corpse  indeed, 
but  as  pale  as  one. 

After  a  time,  when  he  was  able  to  bear  motion,  the}-  put  my 
lord  upon  a  groom's  horse,  and  gave  the  other  to  Esmond,  the 
men  walking  on  each  side  of  m}'  lord,  to  support  him,  if  need 
were,  and  worth}'  Doctor  Tusher  with  them.  Little  Frank  and 
Hany  rode  together  at  a  foot  pace. 

When  we  rode  together  home,  the  bo}^  said:  "We  met 
mamma,  who  was  walking  on  the  terrace  with  the  doctor,  and 
papa  frightened  her,  and  told  her  3'ou  were  dead  ..." 

"  That  I  was  dead  !  "  asks  Harry. 

"  Yes.  Papa  says  :  '  Here's  poor  Harry  killed,  my  dear  ; ' 
on  which  mamma  gives  a  great  scream  ;  and  oh,  Harry  !  she 
drops  down  ;  and  I  thought  she  was  dead  too.  And  you  never 
saw  such  a  wa}-  as  papa  was  in :  he  swore  one  of  his  great 
oaths  :  and  he  turned  quite  pale  ;  and  then  he  began  to  laugh 
somehow,  and  he  told  the  Doctor  to  take  his  horse,  aud  me  to 
follow  him  ;  and  we  left  him.  And  I  looked  back,  and  saw 
him  dashing  water  out  of  the  fountain  on  to  mamma.  Oh,  she 
was  so  frightened  !  " 

Musing  upon  this  curious  history  —  for  m.y  Lord  Mohun's 
name  was  Henrj-  too,  and  the}^  called  each  other  Frank  and 
Harr}"  often  —  and  not  a  little  disturbed  and  anxious,  Esmond 
rode  home.  His  dear  lad}'  was  on  the  terrace  still,  one  of  her 
women  with  her,  and  my  lord  no  longer  there.  There  are  steps 
and  a  little  door  thence  down  into  the  road.  My  lord  passed, 
looking  very  ghastly,  with  a  handkerchief  over  his  head,  and 


126  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

without  his  hat  and  periwig,  which  a  groom  carried,  but  his 
politeness  did  not  desert  him,  and  he  made  a  bow  to  the  lady 
above. 

"  Thank  heaven,  3'ou  are  safe,"  she  said. 

"And  so  is  Harry  too,  mamma,"  says  little  Frank,— 
"huzzay!" 

Hany  Esmond  got  off  the  horse  to  run  to  his  mistress,  as  did 
little  Frank,  and  one  of  the  grooms  took  charge  of  the  two 
beasts,  while  the  other,  hat  and  periwig  in  hand,  walked  by  my 
lord's  bridle  to  the  front  gate,  which  la3'  half  a  mile  awsiy, 

"Oh,  my  bo}' !  what  a  fright  you  have  given  me!"  Lady 
Castle  wood  said,  when  Harry  Esmond  came  up,  greeting  him 
with  one  of  her  shining  looks,  and  a  voice  of  tender  welcome  ; 
and  she  was  so  kind  as  to  kiss  the  young  man  ('twas  the 
second  time  she  had  so  honored  him),  and  she  walked  into 
the  house  between  him  and  her  son,  holding  a  hand  of  each. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WE    RIDE    AFTER   HIM   TO   LONDON. 

After  a  repose  of  a  couple  of  days,  the  Lord  Mohun  was  so 
far  recovered  of  his  hurt  as  to  be  able  to  announce  his  departure 
for  the  next  morning ;  when,  accordinglj^,  he  took  leave  of 
Castle  wood,  proposing  to  ride  to  London  by  easj'  stages,  and 
lie  two  nights  upon  the  road.  His  host  treated  him  with  a 
studied  and  ceremonious  courtes}^,  certainly  different  from  my 
lord's  usual  frank  and  careless  demeanor ;  but  there  was  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  the  two  lords  parted  otherwise  than 
good  friends,  though  Harry  Esmond  remarked  that  ray  Lord 
Viscount  only  saw  his  guest  in  company  with  other  persons, 
and  seemed  to  avoid  being  alone  with  him.  Nor  did  he  ride 
any  distance  with  Lord  Mohun,  as  his  custom  was  with  most  of 
his  friends,  whom  he  was  always  eager  to  welcome  and  unwill- 
ing to  lose  ;  but  contented  himself,  when  his  lordsliip's  horses 
were  announced,  and  their  owner  appeared,  booted  for  his 
journe}',  to  take  a  courteous  leave  of  the  ladies  of  Castlewood, 
b}'  following  the  Lord  Mohun  down  stairs  to  his  horses,  and  by 
bowing  and  wishing  him  a  good-da}',  in  the  court-yard.  "  I 
shall  see  you  in  London  before  very  long,  Mohun,"  my  lord  said, 
with  a  smile,  "  when  we  will  settle  our  accounts  together." 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  127 

"  Do  not  let  them  trouble  3*011,  Frank,"  said  the  other  good- 
naturedl}^,  and  holding  out  his  hand,  looked  rather  surprised 
at  the  grim  and  stately  manner  in  which  his  host  received  his 
parting  salutation  ;  and  so,  followed  by  his  people,  he  rode 
away. 

Harry  Esmond  was  witness  of  the  departure.  It  was  verj^ 
different  to  m^'  lord's  coming,  for  w^hich  great  preparation  had 
been  made  (the  old  house  putting  on  its  best  appearance  to 
welcome  its  guest),  and  there  was  a  sadness  and  constraint 
about  all  persons  that  da}',  which  filled  Mr.  Esmond  with 
gloomy  forebodings,  and  sad  indefinite  apprehensions.  Lord 
Castlewood  stood  at  the  door  watching  his  guest  and  his  people 
as  the}'  went  out  under  the  arch  of  the  outer  gate.  When  he 
was  there,  Lord  Mohun  turned  once  more,  my  Lord  Viscount 
slowly  raised  his  beaver  and  bowled.  Llis  face  wore  a  peculiar 
livid  look,  Harry  thought.  He  cursed  and  kicked  away  his 
dogs,  which  came  jumping  about  him  —  then  he  walked  up  to 
the  fountain  in  the  centre  of  the  court,  and  leaned  against  a 
pillar  and  looked  into  the  basin.  As  Esmond  crossed  over  to 
his  own  room,  late  the  chaplain's,  on  the  other  side  of  the  court, 
and  turned  to  enter  in  at  the  low  door,  he  saw  Lady  Castlewood 
looking  through  the  curtains  of  the  great  window  of  the  draw- 
ing-room overhead,  at  m}'  lord  as  he  stood  regarding  the  foun- 
tain. There  was  in  the  court  a  peculiar  silence  somehow ;  and 
the  scene  remained  long  in  Esmond's  memor}' :  —  the  sky  bright 
overhead  ;  the  buttresses  of  the  building  and  the  sun-dial  cast- 
ing shadow  over  the  gilt  memento  mori  inscribed  underneath  ;  the 
two  dogs,  a  black  greyhound  and  a  spaniel  nearly  white,  the  one 
wdth  his  face  up  to  the  sun,  and  the  other  snuffing  amongst  the 
grass  and  stones,  and  m}'  lord  leaning  over  the  fountain,  which 
was  bubbling  audibly.  'Tis  strange  how  that  scene,  and  the 
sound  of  that  fountain,  remain  fixed  on  the  memory  of  a  man 
who  has  beheld  a  hundred  sights  of  splendor,  and  danger  too, 
of  which  he  has  kept  no  account. 

It  was  Lad}'  Castlewood  —  she  had  been  laughing  all  the 
morning,  and  especially  gay  and  lively  before  her  husband  and 
his  guest  —  who  as  soon  as  the  two  gentlemen  went  together 
from  her  room,  ran  to  Harry,  the  expression  of  her  countenance 
quite  changed  now,  and  with  a  face  and  eyes  full  of  care,  and 
said,  "  Follow  them,  Harry,  I  am  sure  something  has  gone 
wrong."  And  so  it  was  that  Esmond  was  made  an  eaves- 
dropper at  this  lady's  orders  :  and  retired  to  his  own  chamber, 
to  give  himself  time  in  truth  to  try  and  compose  a  story  which 
would  soothe  his  mistress,  for  he  could  not  but  have  his  own 


128  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

apprehension  that  some  serious  quarrel  was  pending  between 
the  two  gentlemen. 

And  now  for  several  days  the  little  company  at  Castlewood 
sat  at  table  as  of  evenings  :  tiiis  care,  though  unnamed  and 
invisible,  being  nevertheless  present  alway,  in  the  minds  of  at 
least  three  persons  there.  My  lord  v/as  exceeding  gentle  and 
kind.  Whenever  he  quitted  the  room,  his  wife's  eyes  followed 
him.  He  behaved  to  her  with  a  kind  of  mournful  courtesy  and 
kindness  remarkable  in  one  of  his  blunt  ways  and  ordinary 
rough  manner.  He  called  her  by  her  Christian  name  often 
and  fondly,  was  very  soft  and  gentle  with  the  children,  es- 
pecially with  the  boy,  whom  he  did  not  love,  and  being  lax 
about  church  generally,  he  went  thither  and  performed  all  the 
offices  (down  even  to  listening  to  Dr.  Tusher's  sermon)  with 
great  devotion. 

''  He  paces  his  room  all  night ;  what  is  it?  Henry,  find  out 
what  it  is,"  Lad}-  Castlewood  said  constantly  to  her  young 
dependant.  "  He  has  sent  three  letters  to  London,"  she  said, 
another  day. 

"  Indeed,  madam,  they  were  to  a  lawyer,"  Harry  answered, 
who  knew  of  these  letters,  and  had  seen  a  part  of  the  corre- 
spondence, which  related  to  a  new  loan  my  lord  was  raising ; 
and  when  the  .young  man  remonstrated  with  his  patron,  my 
lord  said,  "  He  was  onl}'  raising  money  to  pay  off  an  old  debt 
on  the  propert}',  which  must  be  discharged." 

Regarding  the  money.  Lady  Castlewood  was  not  in  the  least 
anxious.  Few  fond  women  feel  money-distressed  ;  indeed  you 
can  hardly  give  a  woman  a  greater  pleasure  than  to  bid  her 
pawn  her  diamonds  for  the  man  she  loves  ;  and  I  remember 
hearing  Mr.  Congreve  sa}^  of  my  Lord  Marlborough,  that  the 
reason  why  m}'  lord  was  so  successful  with  women  as  a  3'oung 
man,  was  because  he  took  money  of  them.  "There  are  few 
men  who  will  make  such  a  sacrifice  for  them,"  says  Mr.  Con- 
greve, who  knew  a  part  of  the  sex  prett}'  well. 

Harry  Esmond's  vacation  was  just  over,  and,  as  hath  been 
said,  he  was  preparing  to  return  to  the  University  for  his  last 
term  before  taking  his  degree  and  entering  into  the  Church. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  for  this  office,  not  indeed  with  that 
reverence  which  becomes  a  man  about  to  enter  upon  a  duty  so 
holy,  but  with  a  worldly  spirit  of  acquiescence  in  the  prudence 
of  adopting  that  profession  for  his  calhng.  But  his  reasoning 
was  that  he  owed  all  to  the  family  of  Castlewood,  and  loved 
better  to  be  near  them  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world ;  that 
he  might  be  useful  to  his  benefactors,  who  had  the  utmost  confi- 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HEXRY  ESMOND.  129 

dence  in  him  and  affection  for  him  in  return  ;  that  he  might  aid 
in  bringing  up  the  young  heir  of  the  house  and  acting  as  his 
governor ;  that  he  might  continue  to  be  his  dear  patron's  and 
mistress's  friend  and  adviser,  who  both  were  pleased  to  say  that 
they  should  ever  look  upon  him  as  such ;  and  so,  by  making 
himself  useful  to  those  he  loved  best,  he  proposed  to  console 
himself  for  giving  up  of  any  schemes  of  ambition  which  he 
might  have  had  in  his  own  bosom.  Indeed,  his  mistress  had 
told  him  that  she  would  not  have  him  leave  her ;  and  whatever 
she  commanded  was  will  to  him. 

The  Lady  Castlewood's  mind  was  greatly  reUeved  in  the  last 
few  days  of  this  well-remembered  holiday  time,  by  my  lord's 
announcing  one  morning,  after  the  post  had  brought  him  letters 
from  London,  in  a  careless  tone,  that  the  Lord  Mohun  was 
gone  to  Paris,  and  was  about  to  make  a  great  journey  in 
Europe ;  and  though  Lord  Castlewood's  own  gloom  did  not 
wear  off,  or  his  behavior  alter,  yet  this  cause  of  anxiety  being 
removed  from  his  lady's  mind,  she  began  to  be  more  hopeful 
and  eas}'  in  her  spirits,  striving  too,  with  all  her  heart,  and  by 
all  the  means  of  soothing  in  her  power,  to  call  back  my  lord's 
cheerfulness  and  dissipate  his  moody  humor. 

He  accounted  for  it  himself,  by  saying  that  he  was  out  of 
health ;  that  he  wanted  to  see  his  phj^sician  ;  that  he  would  go 
to  London,  and  consult  Doctor  Cheyne.  It  was  agreed  that 
his  lordship  and  Harr}^  Esmond  should  make  the  journe}"  as  far 
as  London  together;  and  of  a  Monday  morning,  the  11th  of 
October,  in  the  year  1700,  the}^  set  forwards  towards  London 
on  horseback.  The  day  before  being  Sunday,  and  the  rain 
pouring  down,  the  family  did  not  visit  church  ;  and  at  night 
my  lord  read  the  service  to  his  famih'  very  finely,  and  with  a 
peculiar  sweetness  and  gravity  —  speaking  the  parting  bene- 
diction, Harry  thought,  as  solemn  as  ever  he  heard  it.  And 
he  kissed  and  embraced  his  wife  and  children  before  the}'  went 
to  their  own  chambers  with  more  fondness  than  he  was  ordi- 
narily wont  to  show,  and  with  a  solemnity  and  feehng  of  which 
thej'  thought  in  after  days  with  no  small  comfort. 

They  took  horse  the  next  morning  (after  adieux  from  the 
famih' as  tender  as  on  the  night  previous),  lay  that  night  on 
the  road,  and  entered  London  at  nightfall ;  m}^  lord  going 
to  the  "Trumpet,"  in  the  Cockpit,  Whitehall,  a  house  used 
by  the  military  in  his  time  as  a  young  man,  and  accustomed  by 
his  lordship  ever  since. 

An  hour  after  my  lord's  arrival  (which  showed  that  his  visit 
had  been  arranged   beforehand),  my  lord's  man  of  business 


130  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEl^RY  ESMOND. 

arrived  from  Graj^'s  Inn  ;  and  thinking  that  his  patron  might 
wish  to  be  private  with  the  lawj^er,  Esmond  was  for  leaving 
them :  but  m}^  lord  said  his  business  was  short ;  introduced 
Mr.  Esmond  particularly  to  the  law3'er,  who  had  been  engaged 
for  the  family  in  the  old  lord's  time  ;  who  said  that  he  had  paid 
the  mone}',  as  desired  that  day,  to  my  Lord  Mohun  himself,  at 
his  lodgings  in  Bow  Street ;  that  his  lordship  had  expressed 
some  surprise,  as  it  was  not  customary  to  employ  lavv3'ers,  he 
said,  in  such  transactions  between  men  of  honor  ;  but  neverthe- 
less, he  had  returned  my  Lord  Viscount's  note  of  hand,  which 
he  held  at  his  chent's  disposition. 

"I  thought  the  Lord  Mohun  had  been  in  Paris!"  cried 
Mr.  Esmond,  in  great  alarm  and  astonishment. 

"  He  is  come  back  at  my  invitation,"  said  mj-  Lord  Viscount. 
"  We  have  accounts  to  settle  together." 

"  I  pray  heaven  the}^  are  over,  sir,"  says  Esmond. 

"Oh,  quite,"  replied  the  other,  looking  hard  at  the  young 
man.  "He  was  rather  troublesome  about  that  money  which 
I  told  3'ou  I  had  lost  to  him  at  play.  And  now  'tis  paid,  and 
we  are  quits  on  that  score,  and  we  shall  meet  good  friends 
again." 

"  M}^  lord,"  cried  out  Esmond,  "  I  am  sure  you  are  deceiv- 
ing me,  and  that  there  is  a  quarrel  between  the  Lord  Mohun 
and  you." 

"Quarrel  —  pish!  We  shall  sup  together  this  very  night, 
and  drink  a  bottle.  Every  man  is  ill-humored  who  loses  such 
a  sum  as  I  have  lost.  But  now  'tis  paid,  and  mj  anger  is  gone 
with  it." 

"  Where  shall  we  sup,^sir?"  says  Harry. 

"  We!  Let  some  gentlemen  wait  till  they  are  asked,"  says 
m,y  Lord  Viscount  with  a  laugh.  "You  go  to  Duke  Street, 
and  see  Mr.  Betterton.  You  love  the  pla}",'  I  know.  Leave 
me  to  follow  my  own  devices  :  and  in  the  morning  we'll  break- 
fast together,  with  what  appetite  we  may,  as  the  play  says." 

"By  G — !  m}'  lord,  I  will  not  leave  you  this  night,"  sa^^s 
Harry  Esmond.  "  I  think  I  know  the  cause  of  your  dispute. 
I  swear  to  you  'tis  nothing.  On  the  \evy  day  the  accident 
befell  Lord  Mohun,  I  was  speaking  to  him  about  it.  I  know 
that  nothing  has  passed  but  idle  gallantry  on  his  part." 

"  You  know  that  nothing  has  passed  but  idle  gallantrj' be- 
tween Lord  Mohun  and  my  wife,"  says  my  lord,  in  a  thunder- 
ing voice  —  ' '  you  knew  of  this  and  did  not  tell  me  ? " 

"  I  knew  more  of  it  than  m}^  dear  mistress  did  herself,  sir 
— a  thousand  times  more.     How  was  she,  who  was  as  innocent 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  131 

as  a  child,  to  know  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  covert  ad- 
dresses of  a  villain?" 

"  A  villain  he  is,  you  allow,  and  would  have  taken  my  wife 
away  from  me." 

"  Sir,  she  is  as  pure  as  an  angel,"  cried  young  Esmond. 

"  Have  I  said  a  word  against  her?"  shrieks  out  my  lord. 
"  Did  I  ever  doubt  that  she  was  pure?  It  would  have  been 
the  last  da}'  of  her  life  when  I  did.  Do  you  fancy  I  think  that 
she  would  go  astra}'?  No,  she  hasn't  passion  enough  for 
that.  She  neither  sins  nor  forgives.  I  know  her  temper  — 
and  now  I've  lost  her,  by  heaven  I  love  her  ten  thousand  times 
more  than  ever  I  did  —  yes,  when  she  was  as  young  and  as  beau- 
tiful as  an  angel  —  when  she  smiled  at  me  in  her  old  father's 
house,  and  used  to  lie  in  wait  for  me  there  as  I  came  from 
hunting  —  when  I  used  to  fling  my  head  down  on  her  little 
knees  and  cry  like  a  child  on  her  lap  —  and  swear  I  w^ould 
reform,  and  drink  no  more  and  play  no  more,  and  follow 
women  no  more;  when  all  the  men  of  the  Court  used  to  be 
following  her  —  when  she  used  to  look  with  her  child  more 
beautiful,  by  George,  than  the  Madonna  in  the  Queen's  Chapel. 
I  am  not  good  like  her,  I  know  it.  Who  is  —  by  heaven, 
who  is?  I  tired  and  w'earied  her,  I  know  that  very  well,  I 
could  not  talk  to  her.  You  men  of  wat  and  books  could  do 
that,  and  I  couldn't  —  I  felt  I  couldn't.  Why,  when  3'ou  was 
but  a  bo3'  of  fifteen  I  could  hear  you  two  together  talking 
3'our  poetry  and  your  books  till  I  w^as  in  such  a  rage  that  I 
was  fit  to  strangle  3'ou.  But  you  were  alwa^'s  a  good  lad, 
Harry,  and  I  loved  3"0U,  3'ou  know  I  did.  And  I  felt  she 
didn't  belong  to  me :  and  the  children  don't.  And  I  besot- 
ted myself,  and  gambled  and  drank,  and  took  to  all  sorts 
of  deviltries  out  of  despair  and  fur3'.  And  now  comes  this 
Mohun,  and  she  likes  him,  I  know  she  likes  him." 

"Indeed,  and  on  m}'  soul,  3'ou  are  wrong,  sir,"  Esmond 
cried. 

"  She  takes  letters  from  him,"  cries  my  lord  —  "  look  here, 
Harry,"  and  he  pulled  out  a  paper  with  a  brown  stain  of 
blood  upon  it.  "  It  fell  from  him  that  da3'  he  wasn't  killed. 
One  of  the  grooms  picked  it  up  from  the  ground  and  gave 
it  me.  Here  it  is  in  their  d — d  comedy  jargon.  '  Divine 
Gloriana  —  Wh}"  look  so  coldl3^  on  3'our  slave  who  adores 
3'OU?  Have  you  no  compassion  on  the  tortures  3'ou  have 
seen  me  suffering?  Do  you  vouchsafe  no  repl3'  to  billets  that 
are  written  with  the  blood  of  mj-  heart.'  She  had  more  let- 
ters from  him." 


132  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND, 

*'  But  she  answered  none,"  cries  Esmond. 

"  That's  not  Mohun's  fault,"  says  my  lord,  ''  and  I  will  be 
revenged  on  him,  as  God's  in  heaven,  I  will." 

"For  a  light  word  or  two,  will  3^ou  risk  your  lady's  honor 
and  3-our  family's  happiness,  my  lord?"  Esmond  interposed 
beseeehingl3\ 

"  Psha  —  there  shall  be  no  question  of  m}^  wife's  honor," 
said  my  lord ;  "  we  can  quarrel  on  plenty  of  grounds  beside. 
If  I  live,  that  villain  will  be  punished ;  if  I  fall,  m}'  family  will 
be  onl^'  the  better :  there  will  onl}'^  be  a  spendthrift  the  less  to 
keep  in  the  world :  and  Frank  has  better  teaching  than  his 
father.  M)^  mind  is  made  up,  Harrj'  Esmond,  and  whatever 
the  event  is,  I  am  easy  about  it.  I  leave  m}^  wife  and  3'ou  as 
guardians  to  the  children." 

Seeing  that  m^'  lord  was  bent  upon  pursuing  this  quarrel, 
and  that  no  entreaties  would  draw  him  from  it,  Harry  Esmond 
(then  of  a  hotter  and  more  impetuous  nature  than  now,  when 
care,  and  reflection,  and  gra}^  hairs  have  calmed  him)  thought 
it  was  his  duty  to  stand  b}"  his  kind,  generous  patron,  and  said, 
''My  lord,  if  3^ou  are  determined  upon  war,  3'ou  must  not  go 
into  it  alone.  'Tis  the  dut3^  of  our  house  to  stand  b3^  its  chief; 
and  I  should  neither  forgive  m3'self  nor  you  if  you  did  not  call 
me,  or  I  should  be  absent  from  3'ou  at  a  moment  of  danger." 

"  Wh3',  Harry,  my  poor  bo3^,  3'ou  are  bred  for  a  parson," 
sa3's  m3'  lord,  taking  Esmond  by  the  hand  ver3^  kindly  ;  "  and 
it  were  a  great  pit3'  that  you  should  meddle  in  the  matter." 

"Your  lordship  thought  of  being  a  churchman  once," 
Harr3^  answered,  "  and  your  father's  orders  did  not  prevent 
him  fighting  at  Castlewood  against  the  Roundheads.  Y^our 
enemies  are  mine,  sir;  I  can-use  the  foils,  as  3'ou  have  seen, 
indifferently  well,  and  don't  think  I  shall  be  afraid  when  the 
buttons  are  taken  off  'em."  And  then  Harry  explained,  with 
some  blushes  and  hesitation  (for  the  matter  was  delicate, 
and  he  feared  lest,  b3'  having  put  himself  forward  in  the  quar- 
rel, he  might  have  offended  his  patron),  how  he  had  himself 
expostulated  with  the  Lord  Mohun,  and  proposed  to  measure 
swords  with  him  if  need  were,  and  he  could  not  be  got  to 
withdraw  peaceabl3'  in  this  dispute.  "And  I  should  have 
beat  him,  sir,"  sa3"s  Harr3",  laughing.  "  He  never  could  parry 
that  hotte  I  brought  from  Cambridge.  Let  us  have  half  an 
hour  of  it,  and  rehearse  —  I  can  teach  it  3'our  lordship :  'tis 
the  most  delicate  point  in  the  world,  and  if  3'ou  miss  it,  3^our 
adversary's  sword  is  through  3'OU." 

"  B3'  George,   Harry,    you    ought  to  be  the  head  of  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  133 

house,"  sa3's  my  lord,  gloomily.  "You  had  been  a  better 
Lord  Castlewood  than  a  lazy  sot  like  me,"  he  added,  drawing 
his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  surveying  his  kinsman  with  ver}' 
kind  and  affectionate  glances. 

"  Let  us  take  our  coats  off  and  have  half  an  hour's  prac- 
tice before  nightfall,"  says  Harry,  after  thankfully  grasping 
his  patron's  manly  hand, 

"You  are  but  a  little  bit  of  a  lad,"  says  my  lord,  good- 
humoredly  ;  "but,  in  faith,  I  believe  you  could  do  for  that 
fellow.  No,  my  boy,"  he  continued,  "  I'll  have  none  of  your 
feints  and  tricks  of  stabbing :  I  can  use  my  sword  pretty  well 
too,  and  will  fight  my  own  quarrel  my  own  way.'* 

"  But  I  shall  be  by  to  see  fair  play?"  cries  Harry. 

"  Yes,  God  bless  3'ou  —  you  shall  be  by." 

"When  is  it,  sir?"  says  Harry,  for  he  saw  that  the  matter 
had  been  arranged  privatel}^  and  beforehand  by  m}^  lord. 

' '  'Tis  arranged  thus  :  1  sent  off  a  courier  to  Jack  Westbury 
to  say  that  I  wanted  him  speciall}'.  He  knows  for  what,  and 
will  be  here  presentl}*,  and  drink  part  of  that  bottle  of  sack. 
Then  we  shall  go  to  the  theatre  in  Duke  Street,  where  we  shall 
meet  Mohun  ;  and  then  we  shall  all  go  sup  at  the  '  Rose '  or 
the  •  Greyhound.'  Then  we  shall  call  for  cards,  and  there  will 
be  probably  a  difference  over  the  cards  —  and  then,  God  help 
us !  —  either  a  wicked  villain  and  traitor  shall  go  out  of  the 
world,  or  a  poor  worthless  devil,  that  doesn't  care  to  remain  in 
it.  I  am  better  away,  Hal  —  my  wife  will  be  all  the  happier 
when  I  am  gone,"  saj's  m}^  lord,  with  a  groan,  that  tore  the 
heart  of  Harrj'  Esmond,  so  that  he  fairly  broke  into  a  sob  over 
his  patron's  kind  hand. 

"The  business  was  talked  over  with  Mohun  before  he  left 
home  —  Castlewood  I  mean  "  —  m}'  lord  went  on.  "  I  took  the 
letter  in  to  him,  which  I  had  read,  and  I  charged  him  with  his 
villainy,  and  he  could  make  no  denial  of  it,  only  he  said  that 
my  wife  was  innocent." 

"And  so  she  is;  before  heaven,  my  lord,  she  is!"  cries 
Harry. 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt.  They  always  are,"  says  my  lord. 
"  No  doubt,  when  she  heard  he  was  killed,  she  fainted  from 
accident." 

"But,  my  lord,  m?/  name  is  Harry,"  cried  out  Esmond, 
burning  red.     "  You  told  m}^  lad}',  '  Harr}^  was  killed  ! ' " 

"  Damnation !  shall  I  fight  you  too?"  shouts  m}'  lord  in  a 
fury.'*  Are  you,  3'ou  little  serpent,  warmed  b}^  my  fire,  going  to 
sting — youf  —  No,  my  boy,  you're  an  honest  boy  ;  you  are  a 


134  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

good  boy."  (And  here  he  broke  from  rage  into  tears  even  more 
cruel  to  see.)  "  You  are  an  honest  boy,  and  I  love  you  ;  and, 
by  heavens,  1  am  so  wretched  that  I  don't  care  what  sword  it 
is  that  ends  me.  Stop,  here's  Jack  Westbury.  Well,  Jack ! 
Welcome,  old  boy !     This  is  my  kinsman,  Harry  Esmond." 

''  Who  brought  j^onr  bowls  for  you  at  Castlewood,  sir? "  says 
Harry,  bowing ;  and  the  three  gentlemen  sat  down  and  drank 
of  that  bottle  of  sack  which  was  prepared  for  them. 

"  Harry  is  number  three,"  says  my  lord.  "  You  needn't  be 
afraid  of  him,  Jack."  And  the  Colonel  gave  a  look,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  Indeed,  he  don't  look  as  if  I  need."  And  then  my 
lord  explained  vvhat  he  had  only  told  by  hints  before.  When 
he  quarrelled  with  Lord  Mohun  he  was  indebted  to  his  lordship 
in  a  sum  of  sixteen  hundred  pounds,  for  which  Lord  Mohun 
said  he  proposed  to  wait  until  m}'  Lord  Viscount  should  pay 
him.  My  lord  had  raised  the  sixteen  hundred  pounds  and  sent 
them  to  Lord'  Mohun  that  morning,  and  before  quitting  home 
had  put  his  affairs  into  order,  and  was  now  quite  readj^  to  abide 
the  issue  of  the  quarrel. 

When  we  had  drunk  a  couple  of  bottles  of  sack,  a  coach  was 
called,  and  the  three  gentlemen  went  to  the  Duke's  Playhouse, 
as  agreed.  The  play  was  one  of  Mr.  Wycherlev's  —  "  Love  in 
a  Wood." 

Harry  Esmond  has  thought  of  that  play  ever  since  with  a 
kind  of  terror,  and  of  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  the  actress  who  per- 
formed the  girl's  part  in  the  comed3\  She  was  disguised  as  a 
page,  and  came  and  stood  before  the  gentlemen  as  they  sat  on 
the  stage,  and  looked  over  her  shoulder  with  a  pair  of  arch  black 
eyes,  and  laughed  at  m}'  lord,  and  asked  what  ailed  the  gentle- 
man from  the  country,  and  had  he  had  bad  news  from  Bullock 
fair? 

Between  the  acts  of  the  play  the  gentlemen  crossed  over  and 
conversed  freely.  There  were  two  of  Lord  Mohun's  part}',  Cap- 
tain Macartney,  in  a  military  habit,  and  a  gentleman  in  a  suit 
of  blue  velvet  and  silver  in  a  fair  periwig,  with  a  rich  fall  of 
point  of  Venice  lace  —  my  Lord  the  Earl  of  Warwick  and  Hol- 
land. My  lord  had  a  paper  of  oranges,  which  he  ate  and  offered 
to  the  actresses,  joking  with  them.  And  Mrs.  Bracegirdle, 
when  my  Lord  Mohun  said  something  rude,  turned  on  him,  and 
asked  him  what  he  did  there,  and  whether  he  and  his  friends 
had  come  to  stab  anj^body  else,  as  they  did  poor  Will  Mount- 
ford  ?  My  lord's  dark  face  grew  darker  at  this  taunt,  and  wore  a 
mischievous,  fatal  look.  They  that  saw  it  remembered  it,  and 
said  so  afterward. 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  135 

When  the  play  was  ended  the  two  parties  joined  compan}^ ; 
and  my  Lord  Castlewood  then  proposed  that  they  should  go  to  a 
tavern  and  sup.  Lockit's,  the  "  Greyhound,"  in  Charing  Cross, 
was  the  house  selected.  All  six  marched  together  that  way ; 
the  three  lords  going  a-liead,  Lord  Mohun's  captain,  and  Colonel 
Westbury,  and  Harry  Esmond,  walking  behind  them.  As  they 
walked,  Westbur}'  told  Harry  Esmond  about  his  old  friend  Dick 
the  Scholar,  who  had  got  promotion,  and  was  Cornet  of  the 
Guards,  and  had  wrote  a  book  called  the  "Christian  Hero," 
and  had  all  the  Guards  to  laugh  at  him  for  his  pains,  for  the 
Christian  Hero  was  breaking  the  commandments  constantl}', 
Westbury  said,  and  had  fought  one  or  two  duels  alread}'.  And, 
in  a  lower  tone,  Westbury  besought  young  Mr.  Esmond  to  take 
no  part  in  the  quarrel.  "  There  was  no  need  for  more  seconds 
than  one,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  and  the  Captain  or  Lord  War- 
wick might  easily  withdraw."  But  Harry  said  no  ;  he  was  bent 
on  going  through  with  the  business.  Indeed,  he  had  a  plan  in 
his  head,  which,  he  thought,  might  prevent  my  Lord  Viscount 
from  enga^ins^. 

They  went  in  at  the  bar  of  the  tavern,  and  desired  a  private 
room  and  wine  and  cards,  and  when  the  drawer  had  brought 
these,  they  began  to  drink  and  call  healths,  and  as  long  as  the 
servants  were  in  the  room  appeared  very  friendl}'. 

Harry  Esmond's  plan  was  no  other  than  to  engage  in  talk 
with  Lord  Mohun,  to  insult  him,  and  so  get  the  first  of  the  quar- 
rel. So  when  cards  were  proposed  he  offered  to  play.  "  Psha  !  " 
says  my  Lord  Mohun  (whether  wishing  to  save  Harry,  or  not 
choosing  to  try  the  botte  de  Jesulte^  it  is  not  to  be  known)  — 
"  Young  gentlemen  from  college  should  not  play  these  stakes. 
You  are  too  3'oung." 

"  Who  dares' say  I  am  too  j'oung?"  broke  out  Harry.  "  Is 
your  lordship  afraid  ?  " 

"  Afraid  !  "  cries  out  Mohun. 

But  my  good  Lord  Viscount  saw  the  move  —  "  I'll  pla}^  3'ou 
for  ten  moidores,  Mohun,"  says  he.  "  You  silly  boy,  we  don't 
play  for  groats  here  as  you  do  at  Cambridge."  And  Harry, 
who  had  no  such  sum  in  his  pocket  (for  his  half-year's  salary' 
was  always  pretty  well  spent  before  it  was  due),  fell  back  with 
rage  and  vexation  in  his  heart  that  he  had  not  money  enough 
to  stake. 

"I'll  stake  the  5'oung  gentleman  a  crown,"  says  the  Lord 
Mohun's  captain. 

"I  thought  crowns  were  rather  scarce  with  the  gentlemen 
of  the  army,"  says  Harry. 


136  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

"  Do  they  birch  at  College?"  sa3's  the  Captain. 

*'They  birch  fools,"  says  Harrj^  ^' and  they  cane  bullies, 
and  they  fling  puppies  into  the  water." 

*'  Faith,  then,  there's  some  escapes  drowning,"  says  the  Cap- 
tain, who  was  an  Irishman ;  and  all  the  gentlemen  began  to 
laugh,  and  made  poor  Harry  only  more  angr3\ 

My  Lord  Mohun  presently  snuffed  a  candle.  It  was  when 
the  drawers  brought  in  fresh  bottles  and  glasses  and  were  in  the 
room  —  on  which  my  Lord  Viscount  said  —  "  The  Deuce  take 
you,  Mohun,  how  damned  awkward  3'ou  are.  Light  the  candle, 
3^ou  drawer." 

"  Damned  awkward  is  a  damned  awkward  expression,  my 
lord,"  sa3's  the  other.  ''  Town  gentlemen  don't  use  such  words 
• — or  ask  pardon  if  the3'  do." 

"  I'm  a  country  gentleman,"  sa3's  m3^  Lord  Viscount. 

"  I  see  it  by  your  manner,"  sa3^s  my  Lord  Mohun.  "No 
man  shall  sa3'  damned  awkward  to  me." 

"  I  fling  the  words  in  3-our  face,  my  lord,"  says  the  other; 
*'  shall  I  send  the  cards  too?" 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen!  before  the  servants?"  cr3^  out 
Colonel  Westbur3'  and  my  Lord  Warwick  in  a  breath.  The 
drawers  go  out  of  the  room  hastil3'.  They  tell  the  people  below 
of  the  quarrel  up  stairs. 

"  Enough  has  been  said,"  sa3's  Colonel  Westbur3\  "  Will 
3'our  lordships  meet  to-morrow  morning?" 

"  Will  my  Lord  Castle  wood  withdraw  his  words?  "  asks  the 
Earl  of  Warwick. 

"  M3^   Lord   Castlewood   will   be first,"  sa3^s   Colonel 

Westbur3\ 

"  Then  we  have  nothing  for  it.  Take  notice,  gentlemen, 
there  have  been  outrageous  words  —  reparation  asked  and  re- 
fused." 

"And  refused,"  says  my  Lord  Castlewood,  putting  on  his 
hat.     "Where  shall  the  meeting  be?  and  when?" 

"  Since  m3^  Lord  refuses  me  satisfaction,  which  I  deeply  re- 
gret, there  is  no  time  so  good  as  now,"  sa3's  m3'  Lord  Mohun. 
"  Let  us  have  chairs  and  go  to  Leicester  Field." 

"Are  3^our  lordship  and  I  to  have  the  honor  of  exchanging 
a  pass  or  two  ?  "  says  Colonel  Westbur3',  with  a  low  bow  to  m3" 
Lord  of  Warwick  and  Holland. 

"  It  is  an  honor  for  me,"  sa3's  m3"  lord,  with  a  profound  con- 
gee, "  to  be  matched  with  a  gentleman  who  has  been  at  Mons 
and  Namur." 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND.  137 

*' Will  3'our  Reverence  permit  me  to  give  3011  a  lesson?" 
says  the  Captain. 

"  Na\',  na^^,  gentlemen,  two  on  a  side  are  plent},"  sa3^s 
Hany's  patron.  "  Spare  the  bo3',  Captain  Macartne3%"  and  he 
shook  Harr3^'s  hand  —  for  the  last  time,  save  one,  in  his  life. 

At  the  bar  of  the  tavern  all  the  gentlemen  stopped,  and  m3' 
Lord  Visconnt  said,  laughing,  to  the  barwoman,  that  those 
cards  set  people  sadl3'  a-quarrelling ;  but  that  the  dispute  was 
over  now,  and  the  parties  were  all  going  awa3'  to  m3^  Lord  Mo- 
liun's  house,  in  Bow  Street,  to  drink  a  bottle  more  before  going 
to  bed. 

A  half-dozen  of  chairs  were  now  called,  and  the  six  gentle- 
men stepping  into  them,  the  word  was  privatel3'  given  to  the 
chairmen  to  go  to  Leicester  Field,  where  the  gentlemen  were 
set  down  opposite  the  ''  Standard  Tavern."  It  was  midnight, 
and  the  town  was  abed  b3^  this  time,  and  onl3^  a  few  lights  in 
the  windows  of  the  houses  ;  but  the  night  was  bright  enough  for 
the  unhapp3'  purpose  which  the  disputants  came  about ;  and  so 
all  six  entered  into  that  fatal  square,  the  chairmen  standing 
without  the  railing  and  keeping  the  gate,  lest  any  persons  should 
disturb  the  meeting. 

All  that  happened  there  hath  been  matter  of  public  notoriet3% 
and  is  recorded,  for  warning  to  lawless  men,  in  the  annals  of 
our  country.  After  being  engaged  for  not  more  than  a  couple 
of  minutes,  as  Harr3'  Esmond  thought  (though  being  occupied 
at  the  time  with  his  own  adversar3''s  point,  which  was  active, 
he  may  not  have  taken  a  good  note  of  time) ,  a  cry  from  the 
chairmen  without,  who  were  smoking  their  pipes,  and  leaning 
over  the  railings  of  the  field  as  they  watched  the  dim  combat 
within,  announced  that  some  catastrophe  had  happened,  which 
caused  Esmond  to  drop  his  sword  and  look  round,  at  which 
moment  his  enemy  wounded  him  in  the  right  hand.  But  the 
young  man  did  not  heed  this  hurt  much,  and  ran  up  to  the 
place  where  he  saw  his  dear  master  was  down. 

M3^  Lord  Mohun  was  standing  over  him. 

''  Are  3'OU  much  hurt,  Frank?"  he  asked  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"  I  believe  I  am  a  dead  man,"  mv  lord  said  from  the  ground. 

"  No,  no,  not  so,"  says  the  other ;  "  and  I  call  God  to  wit- 
ness, Frank  Esmond,  that  I  would  have  asked  3^our  pardon, 
had  3^ou  but  given  me  a  chance.  In  —  in  the  first  cause  of  our 
falling  out,  I  swear  that  no  one  was  to  blame  but  me,  and  — 
and  that  m3'  lad3^  —  " 

'"Hush!"  sa3's  my  poor  Lord  Viscount,  lifting  himself  on 
his  elbow  and  speaking  faintly.     " 'Twas  a  dispute  about  the 


138  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

cards  —  the  cursed  cards.  Harry  my  boy,  are  you  wounded, 
too  ?  God  help  thee  !  I  loved  thee,  Harry,  and  thou  must 
watch  over  my  little  Frank  —  and  —  and  carry  this  little  heart 
to  m}^  wife." 

And  here  my  dear  lord  felt  in  his  breast  for  a  locket  he  wore 
there,  and,  in  the  act,  fell  back  fainting. 

We  were  all  at  this  terrified,  thinking  him  dead  ;  but  Esmond 
and  Colonel  Westbury  bade  the  chairmen  come  into  the  field  ; 
and  so  m}'  lord  was  carried  to  one  Mr.  Aimes,  a  surgeon,  in 
Long  Acre,  who  kept  a  bath,  and  there  the  house  was  wakened 
up,  and  the  victim  of  this  quarrel  carried  in. 

My  Lord  Viscount  was  put  to  bed,  and  his  wound  looked  to 
b}^  the  surgeon,  who  seemed  both  kind  and  skilful.  When  he 
had  looked  to  my  lord,  he  bandaged  up  Harry  Esmond's  hand 
(who,  from  loss  of  blood,  had  fainted  too,  in  the  house,  and 
may  have  been  some  time  unconscious)  ;  and  when  the  young 
man  came  to  himself,  you  ma}'  be  sure  he  eagerly  asked  what 
news  there  were  of  his  dear  patron  ;  on  which  the  surgeon  car- 
ried him  to  the  room  where  the  Lord  Castlewood  lay  ;  who  had 
already  sent  for  a  priest ;  and  desired  earnestly,  they  said,  to 
speak  with  his  kinsman.  He  was  lying  on  a  bed,  very  pale 
and  ghastly,  with  that  fixed,  fatal  look  in  his  eyes,  which  be- 
tokens death  ;  and  faintly  beckoning  all  the  other  persons  away 
from  him  with  his  hand,  and  crying  out  "  Only  Harry  Esmond," 
the  hand  fell  powerless  down  on  the  coverlet,  as  Harry  came 
forward,  and  knelt  down  and  kissed  it. 

^'Thou  art  all  but  a  priest,  Harrj^,"  rny  Lord  Viscount 
gasped  out,  with  a  faint  smile,  and  pressure  of  his  cold  hand. 
"Are  tlie}' all  gone?  Let  me  make  thee  a  death-bed  con- 
fession." 

And  with  sacred  Death  waiting,  as  it  were,  at  the  bed-foot, 
as  an  awful  witness  of  his  words,  the  poor  dying  soul  gasped 
out  his  last  wishes  in  respect  of  his  family  ;  —  his  humble  pro- 
fession of  contrition  for  his  faults  ;  —  and  his  charity  towards 
the  world  he  was  leaving.  Some  things  he  said  concerned 
Harry  Esmond  as  much  as  they  astonished  him.  And  my  Lord 
Viscount,  sinking  visibly,  was  in  the  midst  of  these  strange 
confessions,  when  the  ecclesiastic  for  whom  my  lord  had  sent, 
Mr.  Atterbury,  arrived. 

This  gentleman  had  reached  to  no  great  church  dignity 
as  yet,  but  was  only  preacher  at  St.  Bride's,  drawing  all  the 
town  thither  by  his  eloquent  sermons.  Pie  was  godson  to  my 
lord,  who  had  been  pupil  to  his  father ;  had  paid  a  visit  to 
Castlewood  from  Oxford  more  than  once ;  and  it  was   by  his 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  139 

advice,  I  think,  that  Harry  Esmond  was  sent  to  Cambridge, 
rather  than  to  Oxford,  of  which  place  Mr.  Atterbur}',  though  a 
distinguished  member,  spoke  but  ill. 

Our  messenger  found  the  good  priest  already  at  his  books  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  he  followed  the  man  eagerly  to 
the  house  where  m}^  poor  Lord  Viscount  la3' — Esmond  watch- 
ing him,  and  taking  his  dying  words  from  his  mouth. 

My  lord,  hearing  of  Mr.  Atterbur3''s  arrival,  and  squeezing 
Esmond's  hand,  asked  to  be  alone  with  the  priest ;  and  Esmond 
left  them  there  for  this  solemn  interview.  You  may  be  sure 
that  his  own  prayers  and  grief  accompanied  that  dying  bene- 
factor. My  lord  had  said  to  him  that  which  confounded  the 
young  man  —  informed  him  of  a  secret  which  greatly  concerned 
him.  Indeed,  after  hearing  it,  he  had  had  good  cause  for  doubt 
and  disma}^ ;  for  mental  anguish  as  well  as  resolution.  While 
the  colloquy  between  Mr.  Atterbury  and  his  dying  penitent  took 
place  within,  an  immense  contest  of  perplexity  was  agitating 
Lord  Castle  wood's  young  companion. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  —  it  may  be  more  —  Mr.  Atterbury 
came  out  of  the  room,  looking  very  hard  at  Esmond,  and  hold- 
ing a  paper. 

"He  is  on  the  brink  of  God's  awful  judgment,"  the  priest 
whispered.  "  He  has  made  his  breast  clean  to  me.  He  forgives 
and  believes,  and  makes  restitution.  Shall  it  be  in  public? 
Shall  we  call  a  witness  to  sign  it?" 

"God  knows,"  sobbed  out  the  young  man,  "my  dearest 
lord  has  only  done  me  kindness  all  his  life." 

The  priest  put  the  paper  into  Esmond's  hand.  He  looked 
at  it.     It  swam  before  his  ej'es. 

"  'Tis  a  confession,"  he  said. 

"  'Tis  as  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Atterbury. 

There  was  a  fire  in  the  room  where  the  cloths  were  drying 
for  the  baths,  and  there  lay  a  heap  in  a  corner  saturated  with 
the  blood  of  my  dear  lord's  body.  Esmond  went  to  the  fire, 
and  threw  the  paper  into  it.  'Twas  a  great  chimne}^  with 
glazed  Dutch  tiles.  How  we  remember  such  trifles  at  such 
awful  moments  !  —  the  scrap  of  the  book  that  we  have  read  in 
a  great  grief —  the  taste  of  that  last  dish  that  we  have  eaten 
before  a  duel,  or  some  such  supreme  meeting  or  parting.  On 
the  Dutch  tiles  at  the  Bagnio  was  a  rude  picture  representing 
Jacob  in  hairy  gloves,  cheating  Isaac  of  Esau's  birthright.  The 
burning  paper  lighted  it  up. 

"'Tis  onl}-  a  confession,  Mr.  Atterbury,"  said  the  young 
man.     He  leaned  his  head  against  the  mantel-piece  :  a  burst  of 


140  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

tears  came  to  his  eyes.  They  were  the  first  he  had  shed  as  he 
sat  b}^  his  lord,  scared  b}'  this  calamity,  and  more  3'et  b}"  what 
the  poor  dying  gentleman  had  told  him,  and  shocked  to  think 
that  he  should  be  the  agent  of  bringing  this  double  misfortune 
on  those  he  loved  best. 

"'Let  us  go  to  him,"  said  Mr.  Esmond.  And  accordingly 
they  went  into  the  next  chamber,  where  by  this  time,  the  dawn 
had  broke,  which  showed  my  lord's  poor  pale  face  and  wild  ap- 
pealing e\'es,  that  wore  that  awful  fatal  look  of  coming  dis- 
solution. The  surgeon  was  with  him.  He  went  into  the 
chamber  as  Atterbury  came  out  thence.  My  Lord  Viscount 
turned  round  his  sick  eyes  towards  Esmond.  It  choked  the 
other  to  hear  that  rattle  in  his  throat. 

"My  Lord  Viscount,"  says  Mr.  Atterbur}^,  "Mr.  Esmond 
wants  no  witnesses,  and  hath  burned  the  paper." 

"My  dearest  master!"  Esmond  said,  kneeling  down,  and 
taking  his  hand  and  kissing  it. 

My  Lord  Viscount  sprang  up  in  his  bed,  and  flung  his  arms 
round  ICsmond.  "God  bl — bless — "was  all  he  said.  The 
blood  rushed  from  his  mouth,  deluging  the  young  man.  My 
dearest  lord  was  no  more.  He  was  gone  with  a  blessing  on  his 
lips,  and  love  and  repentance  and  kindness  in  his  manly  heart. 

"  Benedlcti  benedicentes^''  sa3'S  Mr.  Atterbur^^  and  the  young 
man,  kneeling  at  the  bedside,  groaned  out  an  "  Amen." 

"  Who  shall  take  the  news  to  her?  "  was  Mr.  Esmond's  next 
thought.  And  on  this  he  besought  Mr.  Atterbur}'  to  bear  the 
tidings  to  Castlewood.  He  could  not  face  his  mistress  himself 
with  those  dreadful  news.  Mr.  Atterbury  complying  kindly, 
Esmond  writ  a  hasty  note  on  his  table-book  to  m}'  lord's  man, 
bidding  him  get  the  horses  for  Mr.  Atterbury,  and  ride  with 
him,  and  send  Esmond's  own  valise  to  the  Gatehouse  prison, 
whither  he  resolved  to  go  and  give  himself  up. 


BOOK  11. 

CONTAINS   MR.  ESMOND'S   MILITARY  LIFE,  AND   OTHER   MATTERS 
APPERTAINING  TO   THE   ESMOND   FAMILY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I   AM   IN   PRISON,  AND    VISITED,  BUT   NOT    CONSOLED    THERE. 

Those  raa}^  imagine,  who  have  seen  death  untimel}^  strike 
down  persons  revered  and  beloved,  and  know  how  unavailing 
consolation  is,  what  was  Harr}^  Esmond's  anguish  after  being 
an  actor  in  that  ghastly  midnight  scene  of  blood  and  homicide. 
He  could  not,  he  felt,  have  faced  his  dear  mistress,  and  told  her 
that  stor}'.  He  was  thankful  that  kind  Atterburj^  consented  to 
break  the  sad  news  to  her  ;  bat,  besides  his  grief,  which  he  took 
into  prison  with  him,  he  had  that  in  his  heart  which  secretly 
cheered  and  consoled  him. 

A  great  secret  had  been  told  to  Esmond  by  his  unhappy 
stricken  kinsman,  lying  on  his  death-bed.  Were  he  to  disclose 
it,  as  in  equity  and  honor  he  might  do,  the  discovery  would  but 
bring  greater  grief  upon  those  whom  he  loved  best  in  the  world, 
and  who  were  sad  enough  already.  Should  he  bring  down 
shame  and  perplexity  upon  all  those  beings  to  whom  he  was 
attached  by  so  many  tender  ties  of  affection  and  gratitude? 
degrade  his  father's  widow  ?  impeach  and  sully  his  father's  and 
kinsman's  honor?  and  for  what?  for  a  barren*^ title,  to  be  worn 
at  the  expense  of  an  innocent  boy,  the  son  of  his  dearest  bene- 
factress. He  had  debated  this  matter  in  his  conscience,  whilst 
his  poor  lord  was  making  his  dying  confession.  On  one  side 
were  ambition,  temptation,  justice  even  ;  but  love,  gratitude, 
and  fidelity,  pleaded  on  the  other.  And  when  the  struggle  was 
over  in  Harry's  mind,  a  glow  of  righteous  happiness  filled  it ; 
and  it  was  with  grateful  tears  in  his  e3^es  that  he  returned 
thanks  to  God  for  that  decision  which  he  had  been  enabled  to 
make. 


142  THE   HISTORY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

"  When  I  was  denied  bym}^  own  blood,"  thought  he,  "  these 
dearest  friends  received  and  cherished  me.  When  I  was  a 
nameless  orphan  myself,  and  needed  a  protector,  I  found  one 
in  yonder  kind  soul,  who  has  gone  to  his  account  repenting  of 
the  innocent  wrong  he  has  done." 

And  w^ith  this  consoling  thought  he  went  away  to  give 
himself  up  at  the  prison,  after  kissing  the  cold  lips  of  his 
benefactor. 

It  was  on  the  third  day  after  he  had  come  to  the  Gatehouse 
prison,  (where  he  lay  in  no  small  pain  from  his  wound,  which 
inflamed  and  ached  severel}^)  and  with  those  thoughts  and 
resolutions  that  have  been  just  spoke  of,  to  depress,  and  yet  to 
console  him,  that  H.  Esmond's  keeper  came  and  told  him  that 
a  visitor  was  asking  for  him,  and  though  he  could  not  see  her 
face,  which  was  enveloped  in  a  black  hood,  her  w^hole  figure, 
too,  being  veiled  and  covered  with  the  deepest  mourning, 
Esmond  knew  at  once  that  his  visitor  was  his  dear  mistress. 

He  got  up  from  his  bed,  where  he  was  lying,  being  very 
weak ;  and  advancing  towards  her  as  the  retiring  keeper  shut 
the  door  upon  him  and  his  guest  in  that  sad  place,  he  put  for- 
ward his  left  hand  (for  the  right  was  wounded  and  bandaged), 
and  he  would  have  taken  that  kind  one  of  his  mistress,  which 
had  done  so  many  offices  of  friendship  for  him  for  so  many 
years. 

But  the  Lady  Castlewood  went  back  from  him,  putting  back 
her  hood,  and  leaning  against  the  great  stanchioned  door  which 
the  gaoler  had  just  closed  upon  them.  Her  face  was  ghastly 
white,  as  Esmond  saw  it,  looking  from  the  hood  ;  and  her  eyes, 
ordinarily  so  sweet  and  tender,  were  fixed  on  him  with  such  a 
tragic  glance  of  woe  and  anger,  as  caused  the  young  man,  un- 
accustomed to  unkindness  from  that  person,  to  avert  his  own 
glances  from  her  face. 

"And  this,  Mr.  Esmond,"  she  said,  "  is  where  I  see  you  ; 
and  'tis  to  this  you  have  brought  me  !  " 

"  You  have  come  to  console  me  in  my  calamity,  madam," 
said  he  (though,  in  truth,  he  scarce  knew  how  to  address  her, 
his  emotions  at  beholding  her  so  overpowered  him) . 

She  advanced  a  little,  but  stood  silent  and  trembling,  look- 
ing out  at  him  from  her  black  draperies,  with  her  small  white 
hands  clasped  togetlier,  and  quivering  lips  and  hollow  eyes. 

"  Not  to  reproach  me,"  he  continued  after  a  pause.  "  Mj^ 
grief  is  sufficient  as  it  is." 

"Take  back  your  hand  —  do  not  touch  me  with  it!"  she 
cried.     "  Look !  there's  blood  on  it !  " 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  143 

"  I  wish  they  had  taken  it  all,"  said  Esmond  ;  "  if  you  are 
unkind  to  me." 

''  Where  is  m^'  husband?"  she  broke  ont.  "  Give  me  back 
my  husband,  Henr3'.  Why  did  3'ou  stand  b}'  at  midnight  and 
see  him  murdered?  Why  did  the  traitor  escape  who  did  it? 
You,  the  champion  of  your  house,  who  offered  to  die  for  us! 
You  that  he  loved  and  trusted,  and  to  whom  I  confided  him  — 
you  that  vowed  devotion  and  gratitude,  and  I  believed  you  — 
3'es,  I  believed  you  —  why  are  3'ou  here,  and  my  noble  Francis 
gone  ?  WI13-  did  you  come  among  us  ?  You  have  onl3^  brought 
us  grief  and  sorrow ;  and  repentance,  bitter,  bitter  repent- 
ance, as  a  return  for  our  love  and  kindness.  Did  I  ever  do 
}'ou  a  wrong,  Henry?  You  were  but  an  orphan  child  when 
I  first  saw  you  —  when  he  first  saw  3'ou,  w^ho  was  so  good,  and 
noble,  and  trusting.  He  would  have  had  you  sent  away,  but, 
like  a  foolish  woman,  I  besought  him  to  let  you  stay.  And 
3'ou  pretended  to  love  us,  and  we  believed  you  —  and  3'ou  made 
our  house  wretched,  and  m3^  husband's  heart  went  from  me : 
and  I  lost  ]iim  through  3'ou  —  I  lost  him  —  the  husband  of  m3' 
youth,  I  sa3'.  I  worshipped  him  :  3'ou  know  I  w^orshipped 
him  —  and  he  was  changed  to  me.  He  was  no  more  my 
Francis  of  old  —  m3"  dear,  dear  soldier.  He  loved  me  before 
he  saw  3'ou  ;  and  I  loved  him.  Oh,  God  is  m3-  witness  how 
I  loved  him  !  Why  did  he  not  send  you  from  among  us  ? 
'Twas  only  his  kindness,  that  could  refuse  me  nothing  then. 
And,  3'oung  as  3'ou  were — 3'es,  and  weak  and  alone  —  there 
was  evil,  I  knew  there  was  evil  in  keeping  3'ou.  I  read  it  in 
3'our  face  and  eyes.  I  saw  that  the3'  boded  harm  to  us  —  and 
it  came,  I  knew  it  would.  Why  did  you  not  die  when  3'ou  had 
the  small-pox  —  and  I  came  m3'self  and  watched  3'ou,  and  3'ou 
didn't  know  mQ  in  3'our  dehrium  —  and  3'ou  called  out  for  me, 
though  I  was  there  at  your  side?  All  that  has  happened  since, 
was  a  just  judgment  on  m3'  wicked  heart  —  my  wicked  jealous 
heart.  Oh,  I  am  punished  —  awfulty  punished  !  My  husband 
lies  in  his  blood  —  murdered  for  defending  me,  my  kind,  kind, 
generous  lord  —  and  3'ou  were  b3',  and  3-ou  let  him  die,  Henr3' !  " 

These  words,  uttered  in  the  wildness  of  her  grief,  by  one 
who  was  ordinarily  quiet,  and  spoke  seldom  except  with  a 
gentle  smile  and  a  soothing  tone,  rung  in  Esmond's  ear;  and 
'tis  said  that  he  repeated  man3'  of  them  in  the  fever  into  which 
he  now  fell  from  his  wound,  and  perhaps  from  the  emotion 
which  such  passionate,  undeserved  upbraidings  caused  him. 
It  seemed  as  if  his  very  sacrifices  and  love  for  this  lad3'  and  her 
family  were  to  turn  to  evil  and  reproach :  as  if  his  presence 


144  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

amongst  them  was  indeed  a  cause  of  grief,  and  the  continuance 
of  his  life  but  woe  and  bitterness  to  theirs.  As  the  Lady  Castle- 
wood  spoke  bitterly-,  rapidly,  without  a  tear,  he  never  offered  a 
word  of  appeal  or  remonstrance :  but  sat  at  the  foot  of  his 
prison-bed,  stricken  onl}'  with  the  more  pain  at  thinking  it  was 
that  soft  and  beloved  hand  which  should  stab  him  so  cruelly, 
and  powerless  against  her  fatal  sorrow.  Her  words  as  she 
spoke  struck  the  chords  of  all  his  memory,  and  the  whole  of 
his  boyhood  and  3'outh  passed  within  him ;  whilst  this  lady, 
so  fond  and  gentle  but  yesterday  —  this  good  angel  whom  he 
had  loved  and  worshipped  —  stood  before  him,  pursuing  him 
with  keen  words  and  aspect  malign. 

"  I  wish  I  were  in  my  lord's  place,"  he  groaned  out.  "It 
was  not  my  fault  that  I  was  not  there,  madam.  But  Fate  is 
stronger  than  all  of  us,  and  willed  what  has  come  to  pass.  It 
had  been  better  for  me  to  have  died  when  I  had  the  illness." 

"Yes,  Henr}',"  said  she  —  and  as  she  spoke  she  looked  at 
him  with  a  glance  that  was  at  once  so  fond  and  so  sad,  that  the 
young  man,  tossing  up  his  arms,  wildly  fell  back,  hiding  his 
head  in  the  coverlet  of  the  bed.  As  he  turned  he  struck 
against  the  w^all  with  his  wounded  hand,  displacing  the  liga- 
ture ;  and  he  felt  the  blood  rushing  again  from  the  wound.  He 
remembered  feeling^a  secret  pleasure  at  the  accident  —  and 
thinking,  "  Suppose  I  were  to  end  now,  who  would  grieve  for 
me?" 

This  hemorrhage,  or  the  grief  and  despair  in  which  the  luck- 
less young  man  was  at  the  time  of  the  accident,  must  have 
brought  on  a  dehquium  presently ;  for  he  had  scarce  an}^  recol- 
lection afterwards,  save  of  some  one,  his  mistress  probably, 
seizing  his  hand  —  and  then  of  the  buzzing  noise  in  his  ears  as 
he  awoke,  with  two  or  three  persons  of  the  prison  around  his 
bed,  whereon  he  la}^  in  a  pool  of  blood  from  his  arm. 

It  was  now  bandaged  up  again  by  the  prison  surgeon,  who 
happened  to  be  in  the  place  ;  and  the  governor's  wife  and  ser- 
vant, kind  people  both,  were  with  the  patient.  Esmond  saw 
his  mistress  still  in  the  room  when  he  awoke  from  his  trance  .* 
but  she  went  away  without  a  word  ;  though  the  governor's  wife 
told  him  that  she  sat  in  her  room  for  some  time  afterward,  and 
did  not  leave  the  prison  until  she  heard  that  Esmond  was  likely 
to  do  well. 

Days  afterwards,  when  Esmond  was  brought  out  of  a  fever 
which  he  had,  and  which  attacked  him  that  night  pretty 
sharply,  the  honest  keeper's  wife  brought  her  patient  a  hand- 
kerchief fresh  washed  and  ironed,  and  at  the  corner  of  which 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  145 

he  recognized  his  mistress's  well-known  cipher  and  viscountess's 
crown.  '^  The  lady  had  bound  it  round  his  arm  when  he  fainted, 
and  before  she  called  for  help,"  the  keeper's  wife  said.  "  Poor 
lady !  she  took  on  sadly  about  her  husband.  He  has  been 
buried  to-daj^,  and  a  manj^  of  the  coaches  of  the  nobiUty  went 
with  him  —  my  Lord  Marlborough's  and  my  Lord  Sunderland's, 
and  many  of  the  officers  of  the  Guards,  in  which  he  served  in 
the  old  King's  time  ;  and  my  lady  has  been  with  her  two  chil- 
dren to  the  King  at  Kensington,  and  asked  for  justice  against 
my  Lord  Mohun,  who  is  in  hiding,  and  my  Lord  the  Earl  of 
Warwick  and  Holland,  who  is  ready  to  give  himself  up  and 
take  his  trial." 

Such  were  the  news,  coupled  with  assertions  about  her  own 
honesty  and  that  of  Molly  her  maid,  who  would  never  have 
stolen  a  certain  trumpery  gold  sleeve-button  of  Mr.  Esmond's 
that  was  missing  after  his  fainting  fit,  that  the  keeper's  wife 
brought  to  her  lodger.  His  thoughts  followed  to  that  untirael3^ 
grave,  the  brave  heart,  the  kind  friend,  the  gallant  gentleman, 
honest  of  word  and  generous  of  thought,  (if  feeble  of  purpose, 
but  are  his  betters  much  stronger  than  he  ?)  who  had  given  him 
bread  and  shelter  when  he  had  none ;  home  and  love  when  he 
needed  them ;  and  who,  if  he  had  kept  one  vital  secret  from 
him,  had  done  that  of  which  he  repented  ere  dying  —  a  wrong 
indeed,  but  one  followed  by  remorse,  and  occasioned  by  almost 
irresistible  temptation. 

Esmond  took  his  handkerchief  when  his  nurse  left  him,  and 
very  likely  kissed  it,  and  looked  at  the  bauble  embroidered  in 
the  corner.  "It  has  cost  thee  grief  enough,"  he  thought, 
"  dear  lady,  so  loving  and  so  tender.  Shall  I  take  it  from  thee 
and  thy  children  ?  No,  never  !  Keep  it,  and  wear  it,  my  little 
Frank,  mypretty  boy.  If  I  cannot  make  a  name  for  myself,  I 
can  die  without  one.  Some  day,  when  my  dear  mistress  sees 
my  heart,  I  shall  be  righted  ;  or  if  not  here  or  now,  why,  else- 
where ;  where  Honor  doth  not  follow  us,  but  where  Love  reigns 
perpetual." 

'Tis  needless  to  relate  here,  as  the  reports  of  the  lawyers 
alread}"  have  chronicled  them,  the  particulars  or  issue  of  that 
trial  which  ensued  upon  my  Lord  Castlewood's  melancholy 
homicide.  Of  the  two  lords  engaged  in  that  sad  matter,  the 
second,  my  Lord  the  Earl  of  Warwick  and  Holland,  who  had 
been  engaged  with  Colonel  Westbury,  and  wounded  by  him, 
was  found  not  guilty  by  his  peers,  before  whom  he  was  tried 
(under  the  presidence  of  the  Lord  Steward,  Lord  Somers)  ; 
and  the  principal,  the  Lord  Mohun,  being  found  guilty  of  the 


146  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

manslaughter,  (which,  indeed,  was  forced  upon  him,  and  of 
which  he  repented  most  sincerely,)  pleaded  his  clergy,  and  so 
was  discharged  without  any  penalty.  The  widow  of  the  slain 
nobleman,  as  it  was  told  us  in  prison,  showed  an  extraordinarj^ 
spirit ;  and,  though  she  had  to  wait  for  ten  years  before  her  son 
was  old  enough  to  compass  it,  declared  she  would  have  revenge 
of  her  husband's  murderer.  So  much  and  suddenly  had  grief, 
anger,  and  misfortune  appeared  to  change  her.  But  fortune, 
good  or  ill,  as  I  take  it,  does  not  change  men  and  women.  It 
but  develops  their  characters.  As  there  are  a  thousand  thoughts 
lying  within  a  tnan  that  he  does  not  know  till  he  takes  up  the 
pen  to  write,  so  the  heart  is  a  secret  even  to  him  (or  her)  who 
has  it  in  his  own  breast.  Who  hath  not  found  himself  surprised 
into  revenge,  or  action,  or  passion,  for  good  or  evil,  whereof  the 
seeds  lay  within  him,  latent  and  unsuspected,  until  the  occasion 
called  them  forth  ?  With  the  death  of  her  lord,  a  change  seemed 
to  come  over  the  whole  conduct  and  mind  of  Lady  Castlewood  ; 
but  of  this  we  shall  speak  in  the  right  season  and  anon. 

The  lords  being  tried  then  before  their  peers  at  Westmin- 
ster, according  to  their  privilege,  being  brought  from  the 
Tower  with  state  processions  and  barges,  and  accompanied  by 
lieutenants  and  axe-men,  the  commoners  engaged  in  that  mel- 
anchol}'  fray  took  their  trial  at  Newgate,  as  became  them  ;  and, 
being  all  found  guilty,  pleaded  likewise  their  benefit  of  clergy. 
The  sentence,  as  we  all  know  in  these  cases,  is,  that  the  culprit 
lies  a  3^ear  in  prison,  or  during  the  King's  pleasure,  and  is  burned 
in  the  hand,  or  only  stamped  with  a  cold  iron ;  or  this  part  of 
the  punishment  is  altogether  remitted  at  the  grace  of  the  Sov- 
ereign. So  Harr}^  Esmond  found  himself  a  criminal  and  a 
prisoner  at  two-and-twenty  years  old ;  as  for  the  two  colonels, 
his  comrades,  they  took  the  matter  very  lightly.  Duelling  was 
a  part  of  their  business ;  and  they  could  not  in  honor  refuse 
an}^  invitations  of  that  sort. 

But  the  case  was  different  with  Mr.  Esmond.  His  life  was 
changed  by  that  stroke  of  the  sword  which  destroyed  his  kind 
patron's.  As  he  lay  in  prison,  old  Dr.  Tusher  fell  ill  and  died ; 
and  Lady  Castlewood  appointed  Thomas  Tusher  to  the  vacant 
living ;  about  the  filling  of  which  she  had  a  thousand  times 
fondly  talked  to  Hany  Esmond  :  how  the}^  never  should  part ; 
how  he  should  educate  her  boy ;  how  to  be  a  countrj-  clergy- 
man, like  saintly  George  Herbert  or  pious  Dr.  Ken,  was  the 
happiest  and  greatest  lot  in  life ;  how  (if  he  were  obstinately 
bent  on  it,  though,  for  her  part,  she  owned  rather  to  holding 
Queen  Bess's  opinion,  that  a  bishop  should  have  no  wife,  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  147 

if  not  a  bishop  why  a  clergyman?)  she  would  find  a  good  wife 
for  Harry  Esmond  :  and  so  on,  with  a  hundred  pretty  prospects 
told  bj"  fireside  evenings,  in  fond  prattle,  as  the  children  played 
about  the  hall.  All  these  plans  were  overthrown  now.  Thomas 
Tusher  wrote  to  Esmond,  as  he  lay  in  prison,  announcing  that 
his  patroness  liad  conferred  upon  him  the  living  his  reverend 
father  had  held  for  many  3'ears  ;  that  she  never,  after  the  tragi- 
cal events  which  had  occurred  (whereof  Tom  spoke  with  a  ver}'- 
edifying  horror),  could  see  in  the  revered  Tusher's  pulpit,  or 
at  her  son's  table,  the  man  who  was  answerable  for  the  father's 
life  ;  that  her  ladyship  bade  him  to  say  that  she  prayed  for  her 
kinsman's  repentance  and  his  worldl^^  happiness  ;  that  he  was 
free  to  command  her  aid  for  any  scheme  of  life  which  he  might 
propose  to  himself ;  but  that  on  this  side  of  the  grave  she  would 
see  him  no  more.  And  Tusher,  for  his  own  part,  added  that 
Harry  should  have  his  prayers  as  a  friend  of  his  j^outh,  and 
commended  him  whilst  he  was  in  prison  to  read  certain  works 
of  theolog}",  which  his  Reverence  pronounced  to  be  very  whole- 
some for  sinners  in  his  lamentable  condition. 

And  this  was  the  return  for  a  life  of  devotion  —  this  the  end 
of  years  of  affectionate  intercourse  and  passionate  fidelity ! 
Hariy  would  have  died  for  his  patron,  and  was  held  as  little 
better  than  his  murderer :  he  had  sacrificed,  she  did  not  know 
how  much,  for  his  mistress,  and  she  threw  him  aside ;  he  had 
endowed  her  family  with  all  they  had,  and  she  talked  about 
giving  him  alms  as  to  a  menial !  The  grief  for  his  patron's  loss  ; 
the  pains  of  his  own  present  position,  and  doubts  as  to  the 
future  :  all  these  were  forgotten  under  the  sense  of  the  consum- 
mate outrage  which  he  had  to  endure,  and  overpowered  by  the 
superior  i^ng  of  that  torture. 

He  writ  back  a  letter  to  Mr.  Tusher  from  his  prison,  con- 
gratulating-his  Reverence  upon  his  appointment  to  the  living 
of  Castlewood  :  sarcasticall}^  bidding  him  to  follow  in  the  foot- 
steps of  his  admirable  father,  whose  gown  had  descended  upon 
him  ;  thanking  her  ladyship  for  her  offer  of  alms,  which  he  said 
he  should  trust  not  to  need ;  and  beseeching  her  to  remember 
that,  if  ever  her  determination  should  change  towards  him,  he 
would  be  ready  to  give  her  proofs  of  a  fidelity  which  had  never 
wavered,  and  which  ought  never  to  have  been  questioned  b}^  that 
house.  "  And  if  we  meet  no  more,  or  only  as  strangers  in  this 
world,"  Mr.  Esmond  concluded,  "  a  sentence  against  the  cruelty 
and  injustice  of  which  I  disdain  to  appeal ;  hereafter  she  will 
know  who  was  faithful  to  her,  and  whether  she  had  any  cause  to 
suspect  the  love  and  devotion  of  her  kinsman  and  servant." 


148  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

After  the  sending  of  this  letter,  the  poor  young  fellow's  mind 
was  more  at  ease  than  it  had  been  previousl3\  The  blow  had 
been  struck,  and  he  had  borne  it.  His  cruel  goddess  had  shaken 
her  wings  and  fled  :  and  left  him  alone  and  friendless,  but  vir- 
tute  sua.  And  he  had  to  bear  him  up,  at  once  the  sense  of  his 
right  and  tlie  feeling  of  his  wrongs,  his  honor  and  his  misfor- 
tune. As  1  have  seen  men  waking  and  running  to  arms  at  a 
sudden  trumpet,  before  emergenc}^  a  manly  heart  leaps  up  res- 
olute ;  meets  the  threatening  danger  with  undaunted  counte- 
nance ;  and,  whether  conquered  or  conquering,  faces  it  alwa3-s. 
Ah !  no  man  knows  his  strength  or  his  weakness,  till  occasion 
proves  them.  If  there  be  some  thoughts  and  actions  of  his  life 
from  the  memor}^  of  which  a  man  shrinks  with  shame,  sure 
there  are  some  which  he  may  be  proud  to  own  and  remember ; 
forgiven  injuries,  conquered  temptations  (now  and  then)  and 
difficulties  vanquished  by  endurance. 

It  was  these  thoughts  regarding  the  living,  far  more  than  any 
great  poignanc}^  of  grief  respecting  the  dead,  which  affected 
Harr3^  Esmond  whilst  in  prison  after  his  trial :  but  it  may  be 
imagined  that  he  could  take  no  comrade  of  misfortune  into  the 
confidence  of  his  feehngs,  and  they  thought  it  was  remorse  and 
sorrow  for  his  patron's  loss  which  affected  the  young  man,  in 
error  of  which  opinion  he  chose  to  leave  them.  As  a  compan- 
ion he  was  so  moody  and  silent  that  the  two  officers,  his  fellow- 
sufferers,  left  him  to  himself  mostlj^,  liked  little  very  likely 
what  they  knew  of  him,  consoled  themselves  with  dice,  cards, 
and  the  bottle,  and  whiled  away  their  own  captivity  in  their 
own  way.  It  seemed  to  Esmond  as  if  he  lived  years  in  that 
prison :  and  was  changed  and  aged  when  he  came  out  of  it. 
At  certain  periods  of  life  we  live  years  of  emotion  in  a  few 
weeks  —  and  look  back  on  those  times,  as  on  great  gaps  between 
the  old  life  and  the  new.  You  do  not  know  how  much  you  suf- 
fer in  those  critical  maladies  of  the  heart,  until  the  disease  is 
over  and  you  look  back  on  it  afterwards.  During  the  time,  the 
suffering  is  at  least  sufferable.  The  day  passes  in  more  or  less 
of  pain,  and  the  night  wears  away  somehow.  'Tis  only  in  after 
days  that  we  see  what  the  danger  has  been  —  as  a  man  out 
a-hunting  or  riding  for  his  life  looks  at  a  leap,  and  wonders  how 
he  should  have  survived  the  taking  of  it.  O  dark  months  of 
grief  and  rage  I  of  wrong  and  cruel  endurance  !  He  is  old  now 
who  recalls  you.  Long  ago  he  has  forgiven  and  blest  the  soft 
hand  that  wounded  him  :  but  the  mark  is  there,  and  the  wound 
is  cicatrized  onl}^  —  no  time,  tears,  caresses,  or  repentance,  can 
obliterate  the  scar.     We  are  indocile  to  put  up  with  grief,  how- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  149 

ever.  Rejicimus  rates  quassas :  we  tempt  the  ocean  again  and 
again,  and  try  upon  new  ventures.  Esmond  thought  of  his 
early  time  as  a  novitiate,  and  of  this  past  trial  as  an  initiation 
before  entering  into  life  —  as  our  young  Indians  undergo  tor- 
tures silently  before  they  pass  to  the  rank  of  warriors  in  the 
tribe. 

The  officers,  meanwhile,  who  were  not  let  into  the  secret  of 
the  grief  which  was  gnawing  at  the  side  of  their  silent  young- 
friend,  and  being  accustomed  to  such  transactions,  in  which 
one  comrade  or  another  was  daily  paying  the  forfeit  of  the 
sword,  did  not,  of  course,  bemoan  themselves  very  inconsolably 
about  the  fate  of  their  late  companion  in  arms.  This  one  told 
stories  of  former  adventures  of  love,  or  war,  or  pleasure,  in 
which  poor  Frank  Esmond  had  been  engaged  ;  t'other  recollected 
how  a  constable  had  been  bilked,  or  a  tavern-bull}'  beaten : 
whilst  m}'  lord's  poor  widow  was  sitting  at  his  tomb  worshipping 
iiim  as  an  actual  saint  and  spotless  hero  —  so  the  visitors  said 
who  had  news  of  Lady  Castlewood  ;  and  Westbur}'  and  Macart- 
ney had  pretty  nearly  had  all  the  town  to  come  a«id  see  them. 

The  duel,  its  fatal  termination,  the  trial  of  the  two  peers 
and  the  three  commoners  concerned,  had  caused  the  greatest 
excitement  in  the  town.  The  prints  and  News  Letters  were  full 
of  them.  The  three  gentlemen  in  Newgate  were  almost  as 
much  crowded  as  the  bishops  in  the  Tower,  or  a  highwayman 
before  execution.  We  were  allowed  to  live  in  the  Governor's 
house,  as  hath  been  said,  both  before  trial  and  after  condemna- 
tion, waiting  the  King's  pleasure  ;  nor  was  the  real  cause  of  the 
fatal  quarrel  known,  so  closely  had  my  lord  and  the  two  other 
persons  who  knew  it  kept  the  secret,  but  every  one  imagined  that 
the  origin  of  the  meeting  was  a  gambling  dispute.  Except 
fresh  airif  the  prisoners  had,  upon  payment,  most  things  they 
could  desire.  Interest  was  made  that  they  should  not  mix  with 
the  vulgar-  convicts,  whose  ribald  choruses  and  loud  laughter 
and  curses  could  be  heard  from  their  own  part  of  the  prison, 
where  they  and  the  miserable  debtors  were  confined  pell-mell. 


150  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 


CHAPTER  II. 

1  COME  TO  THE  END  OF  MY  CAPTIVITY,  BUT  NOT  OF  MY 
TROUBLE. 

Among  the  company  which  came  to  visit  the  two  oflScers 
was  an  old  acquaintance  of  Hariy  Esmond  ;  that  gentleman  of 
the  Guards,  namel3%  who  had  been  so  kind  to  Hany  when  Cap- 
tain Westbury's  troop  had  been  quartered  at  Castlewood  more 
than  seven  years  before.  Dick  the  Scholar  was  no  longer 
Dick  the  Trooper  now,  but  Captain  Steele  of  Lucas's  Fusiliers, 
and  secretary  to  my  Lord  Cutts,  that  famous  officer  of  King 
William's,  the  bravest  and  most  beloved  man  of  the  English 
army.  The  two  jolly  prisoners  had  been  drinking  with  a  party 
of  friends  (for  our  cellar  and  that  of  the  keepers  of  Newgate, 
too,  were  supplied  with  endless  hampers  of  Burgundy  and 
Champagne  that  the  friends  of  the  Colonels  sent  in)  ;  and  Harry, 
having  no  wish  for  their  drink  or  their  conversation,  being 
too  feeble  in  health  for  the  one  and  too  sad  in  spirits  for  the 
other,  was  sitting  apart  in  his  little  room,  reading  such  books 
as  he  had,  one  evening,  when  honest  Colonel  Westbury,  flushed 
with  liquor,  and  always  good-humored  in  and  out  of  his  cups, 
came  laughing  into  Harry's  closet  and  said,  ''  Ho,  young  Kill- 
joy !  here's  a  friend  come  to  see  thee  ;  he'll  pray  with  thee,  or 
he'll  drink  with  thee ;  or  he'll  drink  and  pray  turn  about. 
Dick,  my  Christian  hero,  here's  the  little  scholar  of  Castle- 
wood." 

Dick  came  up  and  kissed  Esmond  on  both  cheeks,  impart- 
ing a  strong  perfume  of  burnt  sack  along  with  his  caress  to  the 
young  man. 

' '  What !  is  this  the  little  man  that  used  to  talk  Latin  and 
fetch  our  bowls  ?  How  tall  thou  art  grown  !  I  protest  I  should 
have  known  thee  anj'where.  And  so  j^ou  have  turned  ruffian 
and  fighter ;  and  wanted  to  measure  swords  with  Mohun,  did 
3'ou  ?  I  protest  that  Mohun  said  at  the  Guard  dinner  yester- 
day, where  there  was  a  pretty  company  of  us,  that  the  young 
fellow  wanted  to  fight  him,  and  was  the  better  man  of  the 
two." 

"I  wish  we  could  have  tried  and  proved  it,  Mr.  Steele,'* 
says  Esmond,  thinking  of  his  dead  benefactor,  and  his  eyes 
filling  with  tears. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  151 

With  the  exception  of  that  one  cruel  letter  which  he  had 
from  his  mistress,  Mr.  Esmond  heard  nothing  from  her,  and 
she  seemed  determined  to  execute  her  resolve  of  parting  from 
him  and  disowning  him.  But  he  had  news  of  her,  such  as 
it  was,  which  Mr.  Steele  assiduously  brought  him  from  the 
Prince's  and  Princess's  Court,  where  our  lionest  Captain  had 
been  advanced  to  the  post  of  gentleman  waiter.  When  off 
duty  there,  Captain  Dick  often  came  to  console  his  friends  in 
captivit}' ;  a  good  nature  and  a  friendly  disposition  towards 
all  who  were  in  ill-fortune  no  doubt  prompting  him  to  make  his 
visits,  and  good-fellowship  and  good  wine  to  prolong  them. 

"Faith,"  says  Westbury,  "the  little  scholar  was  the  first 
to  begin  the  quarrel  —  I  mind  me  of  it  now  —  at  Lockit's.  I 
alwa3^s  hated  that  fellow  Mohun.  What  was  the  real  cause  of 
the  quarrel  betwixt  him  and  poor  Frank  ?  I  would  wager  'twas 
a  woman." 

" 'Twas  a  quarrel  about  play  —  on  my  word,  about  play," 
Harr}'  said.  ' '  My  poor  lord  lost  great  sums  to  his  guest  at 
Castle  wood.  Angry  words  passed  between  them  ;  and,  though 
Lord  Castlewood  was  the  kindest  and  most  pliable  soul  alive, 
his  spirit  was  very  high ;  and  hence  that  meeting  which  has 
brought  us  all  here,"  says  Mr.  Esmond,  resolved  never  to  ac- 
knowledge that  there  had  ever  been  any  other  cause  but  cards 
for  the  duel. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  use  bad  words  of  a  nobleman,"  saj^s  West- 
bury  ;  "  but  if  my  Lord  Mohun  were  a  commoner,  I  would  sa}', 
'twas  a  pity  he  was  not  hanged.  He  was  familiar  with  dice 
and  women  at  a  time  other  boys  are  at  school  being  birched ; 
he  was  as  wicked  as  the  oldest  rake,  years  ere  he  had  done 
gi'owing ;  and  handled  a  sword  and  a  foil,  and  a  bloody  one, 
too,  before  he  ever  used  a  razor.  He  held  poor  Will  Mount- 
ford  iff  talk  that  night,  when  bloody  Dick  Hill  ran  him  through. 
He  will  come  to  a  bad  end,  will  that  young  lord;  and  no  end 
is  bad  enough  for  him,"  says  honest  Mr.  Westbury  :  whose 
prophec}^  was  fulfilled  twelve  years  after,  upon  that  fatal  day 
when  Mohun  fell,  dragging  down  one  of  the  bravest  and  great- 
est gentlemen  in  England  in  his  fall. 

From  Mr.  Steele,  then,  who  brought  the  public  rumor,  as 
well  as  his  own  private  intelligence,  Esmond  learned  the  move- 
ments of  his  unfortunate  mistress.  Steele's  heart  was  of  very 
inflammable  composition ;  and  the  gentleman  usher  spoke  in 
terms  of  boundless  admiration  both  of  the  widow  (that  most 
beautiful  woman,  as  he  said)  and  of  her  daughter,  who,  in  the 
Captain's  eyes,  was  a  still  gi'eater  paragon.     If  the  pale  widow, 


152  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

whom  Captain  Richard,  in  his  poetic  rapture  compared  to  a 
Niobe  in  tears  —  to  a  Sigismunda  —  to  a  weeping  Belvidera, 
was  an  object  the  most  lovely  and  pathetic  which  his  eyes  had 
ever  beheld,  or  for  which  his  heart  had  melted,  even  her  ripened 
perfections  and  beauty  were  as  nothing  compared  to  the  prom- 
ise of  that  extreme  loveliness  which  the  good  Captain  saw  in 
her  daughter.  It  was  matre  pnlcra  jilia  pulcrior.  Steele  com- 
posed sonnets  whilst  he  was  on  duty  in  his  Prince's  ante-cham- 
ber, to  the  maternal  and  filial  charms.  He  would  speak  for 
hours  about  them  to  Harry  Esmond ;  and,  indeed,  he  could 
have  chosen  few  subjects  more  likely  to  interest  the  unhappy 
young  man,  whose  heart  was  now  as  always  devoted  to  these 
ladies  ;  and  who  was  thankful  to  all  who  loved  them,  or  praised 
them,  or  wished  them  well. 

Not  that  his  fidelity  was  recompensed  by  any  answering 
kindness,  or  show  of  relenting  even,  on  the  part  of  a  mistress 
obdurate  now  after  ten  years  of  love  and  benefactions.  The 
poor  young  man  getting  no  answer,  save  Tusher's,  to  that 
letter  which  he  had  written,  and  being  too  proud  to  write 
more,  opened  a  part  of  his  heart  to  Steele,  than  whom  no 
man,  when  unhappy,  could  find  a  kinder  hearer,  or  more 
friendly  emissar}^ ;  described  (in  words  which  were  no  doubt 
pathetic,  for  they  came  imo  pectore^  and  caused  honest  Dick 
to  weep  plentifully)  his  j-outh,  his  constancy,  his  fond  devo- 
tion to  that  household  which  had  reared  him ;  his  affection, 
how  earned,  and  how  tenderly  requited  until  but  yesterday, 
and  (as  far  as  he  might)  the  circumstances  and  causes  for 
which  that  sad  quarrel  had  made  of  Esmond  a  prisoner  under 
sentence,  a  widow  and  orphans  of  those  whom  in  life  he  held 
dearest.  In  terms  that  might  well  move  a  harder-hearted  man 
than  young  Esmond's  confidant  —  for,  indeed,  the  speaker's 
own  heart  was  half  broke  as  he  uttered  them  —  he  described 
a  part  of  what  had  taken  place  in  that  onl}^  sad  interview 
which  his  mistress  had  granted  him ;  how  she  had  left  him 
with  anger  and  almost  imprecation,  whose  words  and  thoughts 
until  then  had  been  only  blessing  and  kindness  ;  how  she  had 
accused  him  of  the  guilt  of  that  blood,  in  exchange  for  which 
he  would  cheerfully  have  sacrificed  his  own  (indeed,  in  this 
the  Lord  Mohun,  the  Lord  Warwick,  and  all  the  gentlemen 
engaged,  as  well  as  the  common  rumor  out  of  doors  —  Steele 
told  him — bore  out  the  luckless  3'Oung  man);  and  with  all 
his  heart,  and  tears,  he  besought  Mr.  Steele  to  inform  his 
mistress  of  her  kinsman's  unhappiness,  and  to  deprecate  that 
cruel  anger  she  showed  him.     Half  frantic  with  grief  at  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  153 

injustice  done  him,  and  contrasting  it  with  a  thousand  soft 
recollections  of  love  and  confidence  gone  by,  that  made  his 
present  misery  inexpressibly  more  bitter,  the  poor  wretch 
passed  many  a  lonely  day  and  wakeful  night  in  a  kind  of 
powerless  despair  and  rage  against  his  iniquitous  fortune.  It 
was  the  softest  hand  that  struck  him,  the  gentlest  and  most 
compassionate  nature  that  persecuted  him.  "  I  would  as  lief," 
he  said,  "  have  pleaded  guilty  to  the  murder,  and  have  suffered 
for  it  like  any  other  felon,  as  have  to  endure  the  torture  to 
which  my  mistress  subjects  me." 

Although  the  recital  of  Esmond's  story,  and  his  passionate 
appeals  and  remonstrances,  drew  so  many  tears  from  Dick  who 
heard  them,  they  had  no  effect  upon  the  person  whom  they 
were  designed  to  move.  Esmond's  ambassador  came  back 
from  the  mission  with  which  the  poor  young  gentleman  had 
charged  him,  with  a  sad  blank  face  and  a  shake  of  the  head, 
which  told  that  there  was  no  hope  for  the  prisoner ;  and  scarce 
a  wretched  culprit  in  that  prison  of  Newgate  ordered  for  exe- 
cution, and  trembling  for  a  reprieve,  felt  more  cast  down  than 
Mr.  Esmond,  innocent  and  condemned. 

As  had  been  arranged  between  the  prisoner  and  his  counsel 
in  their  consultations,  Mr.  Steele  had  gone  to  the  dowager's 
house  in  Chels^v,  where  it  has  been  said  the  widow  and  her 
orphans  were,  had  seen  my  Lady  Viscountess,  and  pleaded 
the  cause  of  her  unfortunate  kinsman.  "  And  I  think  I  spoke 
well,  my  poor  boy,"  sa3's  Mr.  Steele  ;  "  for  who  would  not 
speak  well  in  such  a  cause,  and  before  so  beautiful  a  judge? 
I  did  not  see  the  lovely  Beatrix  (sure  her  famous  namesake 
of  Florence  was  never  half  so  beautiful),  onl}^  the  3'oung  Vis- 
count was  in  the  room  with  the  Lord  Churchill,  my  Lord  of 
Marlborough's  eldest  son.  But  these  young  gentlemen  went 
off  to  the  garden  ;  I  could  see  them  from  the  window  tilting  at 
each  other  with  poles  in  a  mimic  tournament  (grief  touches 
''the  3'oung  but  lightly,  and  I  remember  that  I  beat  a  drum  at 
the  coffin  of  my  own  father).  M}^  Lady  Viscountess  looked 
out  at  the  two  boys  at  their  game  and  said  — '  You  see,  sir, 
children  are  taught  to  use  weapons  of  death  as  toys,  and  to 
make  a  sport  of  murder ; '  and  as  she  spoke  she  looked  so 
lovel}^  and  stood  there  in  herself  so  sad  and  beautiful,  an  in- 
stance of  that  doctrine  whereof  I  am  a  humble  preacher,  that 
had  I  not  dedicated  m}^  little  volume  of  the  '  Christian  Hero ' 
■ —  (I  perceive,  Harr}^,  thou  hast  not  cut  the  leaves  of  it.  The 
sermon  is  good,  believe  me,  though  the  preacher's  life  may  not 
answer  it) — I  say,  hadn't  I  dedicated  the  volume  to  Lord 


154  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

Cutts,  I  would  have  asked  permission  to  place  her  ladyship's 
name  on  the  first  page.  I  think  I  never  saw  such  a  beautiful 
violet  as  that  of  her  eyes,  Harr}^  Her  complexion  is  of  the 
pink  of  the  blush-rose,  she  hath  an  exquisite  turned  wrist  and 
dimpled  hand,  and  I  make  no  doubt  —  " 

"•  Did  3^ou  come  to  tell  me  about  the  dimples  on  m}'  lady's 
hand?"  broke  out  Mr.  Esmond,  sadly. 

"  A  lovely  creature  in  affliction  seems  alwa^'s  doubly  beau- 
tiful to  me,"  says  the  poor  Captain,  who  indeed  was  but  too 
often  in  a  state  to  see  double,  and  so  checked  he  resumed  the 
interrupted  thread  of  his  stor}-.  ''  As  I  spoke  my  business," 
Mr.  Steele  said,  ''  and  narrated  to  3'our  mistress  what  all  the 
world  knows,  and  the  other  side  hath  been  eager  to  acknowledge 
—  that  you  had  tried  to  put  j'ourself  between  the  two  lords, 
and  to  take  3'our  patron's  quarrel  on  your  own  point ;  I  re- 
counted the  general  praises  of  3^our  gallantry,  besides  m^'  Lord 
Mohun's  particular  testimou}-  to  it ;  I  thought  the  widow  list- 
ened with  some  interest,  and  her  eyes  —  I  have  never  seen 
such  a  violet,  Harry  —  looked  up  at  mine  once  or  twice.  But 
after  I  had  spoken  on  this  theme  for  a  while  she  suddenly  broke 
away  with  a  cry  of  grief.  '  I  would  to  God,  sir,'  she  said,  '  I 
had  never  heard  that  word  gallantry  which  you  use,  or  known 
the  meaning  of  it.  M3'  lord  might  have  been  here  but  for  that ; 
my  home  might  be  happy;  mj^  poor  boy  have  a  father.  It 
was  what  3'ou  gentlemen  call  gallantr3'  came  into  my  home, 
and  drove  my  husband  on  to  the  cruel  sword  that  killed  him. 
You  should  not  speak  the  word  to  a  Christian  woman,  sir,  a 
poor  widowed  mother  of  orphans,  whose  home  was  happ3'  until 
the  world  came  into  it  —  the  wicked  godless  world,  that  takes 
the  blood  of  the  innocent,  and  lets  the  guilt3^  go  free.' 

"As  the  afflicted  lady  spoke  in  this  strain,  sir,"  Mr.  Steele 
continued,  "  it  seemed  as  if  indignation  moved  her,  even  more 
than  grief.  '  Compensation  ! '  she  went  on  passionate^,  her 
cheeks  and  e3'es  kindling  ;  '  what  compensation  does  3''0ur  world 
give  the  widow  for  her  husband,  and  the  children  for  the  mur- 
derer of  their  father?  The  wretch  who  did  the  deed  has  not 
even  a  punishment.  Conscience !  what  conscience  has  he, 
who  can  enter  the  house  of  a  friend,  whisper  falsehood  and 
insult  to  a  woman  that  never  harmed  him,  and  stab  the  kind 
heart  that  trusted  him?  M3'  Lord  —  my  Lord  Wretch's,  my 
Lord  Villain's,  m3^  Lord  Murderer's  peers  meet  to  try  him,  and 
the3'^  dismiss  him  with  a  word  or  two  of  reproof  and  send  him 
into  the  world  again,  to  pursue  women  with  lust  and  falsehood, 
and  to  murder  unsuspecting   guests  that  harbor  him.     That 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  155 

daj,  my  Lord  —  m}^  Lord  Murderer  —  (I  will  never  name  him) 
—  was  let  loose,  a  w€^man  was  executed  at  Tj^burn  for  stealing 
in  a  shop.  But  a  man  ma}"  rob  another  of  his  life,  or  a  lady 
of  her  honor,  and  shall  pay  no  penalty !  I  take  m^^  child,  run 
to  the  throne,  and  on  my  knees  ask  for  justice,  and  the  King 
refuses  me.  The  King  !  he  is  no  king  of  mine  —  he  never  shall 
be.  He,  too,  robbed  the  throne  from  the  king  his  father  —  the 
true  king  —  and  he  has  gone  unpunished,  as  the  great  do.' 

''I  then  thought  to  speak  for  you,"  Mr.  Steele  continued, 
"and  I  interposed  by  saying,  'There  was  one,  madam,  who, 
at  least,  would  have  put  his  own  breast  between  your  husband's 
and  my  Lord  Mohun's  sword.  Your  poor  young  kinsman, 
Harry  Esmond,  hath  told  me  that  he  tried  to  draw  the  quarrel 
on  himself 

"  '  Are  3-0U  come  from  himV  asked  the  lady  (so  Mr.  Steele 
went  on)  rising  up  with  a  great  severity  and  stateliness.  '  I 
thought  you  had  come  from  the  Princess.  I  saw  Mr.  Esmond 
in  his  prison,  and  bade  him  farewell.  He  brought  misery  into 
my  house.     He  never  should  have  entered  it.' 

''  '  Madam,  madam,  he  is  not  to  blame,'  I  interposed,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Steele. 

"'Do  I  blame  him  to  you,  sir?'  asked  the  widow.  'If 
'tis  he  who  sent  you,  say  that  I  have  taken  counsel,  where'  — 
she  spoke  with  a  very  pallid  cheek  now,  and  a  break  in  her 
voice  — '  where  all  who  ask  may  have  it ;  —  and  that  it  bids 
me  to  part  from  him,  and  to  see  him  no  more.  We  met  in  the 
prison  for  the  last  time  —  at  least  for  years  to  come.  It  ma}'' 
be,  in  years  hence,  when  —  when  our  knees  and  our  tears  and 
our  contrition  have  changed  our  sinful  hearts,  sir,  and  wrought 
our  pardon,  we  may  meet  again  —  but  not  now.  After  what 
has  passed,  I  could  not  bear  to  see  him.  I  wish  him  well,  sir ; 
but"!  wish  him  farewell,  too  ;  and  if  he  has  that  —  that  regard 
towards  us  which  he  speaks  of,  I  beseech  him  to  prove  it  by 
obeying  me  in  this.' 

"'I  shall  break  the  young  man's  heart,  madam,  by  this 
hard  sentence,' "  Mr.  Steele  said. 

"  The  lady  shook  her  head,"  continued  my  kind  scholar. 
*'  '  The  hearts  of  young  men,  Mr.  Steele,  are  not  so  made,' 
she  said.  '  Mr.  Esmond  will  find  other  —  other  friends.  The 
mistress  of  this  house  has  relented  very  much  towards  the  late 
lord's  son,'  she  added,  with  a  blush,  '  and  has  promised  me, 
that  is,  has  promised  that  she  will  care  for  his  fortune.  Whilst 
I  live  in  it,  after  the  horrid  horrid  deed  which  has  passed. 
Castle  wood  must  never  be  a  home  to  him  —  never.     Nor  would 


156  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

I  have  him  write  to  me  —  except  —  no  —  I  would  have  him 
never  write  to  me,  nor  see  him  more.  Give  him,  if  3'ou  will, 
m}^  parting  —  Hush  !  not  a  word  of  this  before  my  daughter.' 

"  Here  the  fair  Beatrix  entered  from  the  river,  with  her 
cheeks  flushing  with  health,  and  looking  only  the  more  lovely 
and  fresh  for  the  mourning  habiliments  which  she  wore.  And 
my  Lady  Viscountess  said  — 

"'Beatrix,  this  is  Mr.  Steele,  gentleman-usher  to  the 
Prince's  Highness.  When  does  your  new  comedy  appear,  Mr. 
Steele  ?  '  I  hope  thou  wilt  be  out  of  prison  for  the  first  night, 
Harry." 

The  sentimental  Captain  concluded  his  sad  tale,  sa3dng, 
"Faith,  the  beauty  of  FiUa  pulcrior  drove  'pulcram  matrem  out 
of  my  head  ;  and  3'et  as  I  came  down  the  river,  and  thought 
about  the  pair,  the  pallid  dignity  and  exquisite  grace  of  the 
matron  had  the  uppermost,  and  I  thought  her  even  more  noble 
than  the  virgin  !  " 

The  party  of  prisoners  lived  very  well  in  Newgate,  and  with 
comforts  very  different  to  those  which  were  awarded  to  the 
poor  wretches  there  (his  insensibility  to  their  misery,  their 
gayet}'  still  more  frightful,  their  curses  and  blasphemy,  hath 
struck  with  a  kind  of  shame  since  —  as  proving  how  selfish, 
during  his  imprisonment,  his  own  particular  grief  was,  and  how 
entirel}'  the  thoughts  of  it  absorbed  him)  :  if  the  three  gentle- 
men lived  well  under  the  care  of  the  Warden  of  Newgate,  it 
was  because  they  paid  well :  and  indeed  the  cost  at  the  dearest 
ordinary  or  the  grandest  tavern  in  London  could  not  have 
furnished  a  longer  reckoning,  than  our  host  of  the  "  Handcuff 
Inn  "  —  as  Colonel  Westburj'  called  it.  Our  rooms  were  the 
three  in  the  gate  over  Newgate  —  on  the  second  story  looking 
up  Newgate  Street  towards  Cheapside  and  Paul's  Church.  And 
we  had  leave  to  walk  on  the  roof,  and  could  see  thence  Smith- 
field  and  the  Bluecoat  Bo3's'  School,  Gardens,  and  the  Char- 
treux,  where,  as  Harry  Esmond  remembered,  Dick  the  Scholar, 
and  his  friend  Tom  Tusher,  had  had  their  schooling. 

Harry  could  never  have  paid  his  share  of  that  prodigious 
heav}"  reckoning  which  my  landlord  brought  to  his  guests  once 
a  week :  for  he  had  but  three  pieces  in  his  pockets  that  fatal 
night  before  the  duel,  when  the  gentlemen  were  at  cards,  and 
oflfered  to  play  five.  But  whilst  he  was  yet  ill  at  the  Gate- 
house, after  Lady  Castle  wood  had  visited  him  there,  and  before 
his  trial,  there  came  one  in  an  orange-tawny  coat  and  blue  lace, 
the  livery  which  the  Esmonds  always  wore,  and  brought  a 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  157 

sealed  packet  for  Mr.  Esmond,  which  contained  twenty  guineas, 
and  a  note  sa3'ing  that  a  counsel  had  been  appointed  for  him, 
and  that  more  money  would  be  forthcoming  whenever  he 
needed  it. 

'Twas  a  queer  letter  from  the  scholar  as  she  was,  or  as  she 
called  herself:  the  Dowager  Viscountess  Castlewood,  written 
in  the  strange  barbarous  French  which  she  and  many  other  fine 
ladies  of  that  time  —  witness  her  Grace  of  Portsmouth  —  em- 
ployed. Indeed,  spelling  was  not  an  article  of  general  com- 
modity in  the  world  tlien,  and  my  Lord  Marlborough's  letters 
can  show  that  he,  for  one,  had  but  a  little  share  of  this  part 
of  grammar ;  — 

"  MoxG  CoussiN,"  my  Lady  Viscountess  Dowager  wrote,  "  je  seay  que 
vous  vous  etes  bravement  batew  et  grievement  ble'ssay  —  du  coste'  de  feu 
M.  le  Vicomte.  M.  le  Compte  de  Varique  ne  se  playt  qua  parlay  de  vous  : 
M.  de  Moon  au9y.  II  di  que  vous  avay  voulew  vous  bastre  avecque  luy 
—  que  vous  estes  plus  fort  que  luy  fur  I'ayscrimme  —  quil'y  a  surtout  cer- 
taine  Botte  que  vous  scavay  quil  n'a  jamniay  sceu  pariay :  et  que  e'en  eut 
ete  fay  de  luy  si  vouseluy  vous  vous  f  ussiay  battevvs  ansanib.  Aincy  ce 
pauv  Vicompte  est  mort.  Mort  et  peutay t  —  Mon  coussin,  mon  coussin  ! 
jay  dans  la  tayste  que  vous  n'estes  quung  pety  Monst  —  angcy  que  les 
Esmonds  ong  tousjours  este.  La  veuve  est  chay  moy.  J'ay  recuilly  cet' 
pauve  famme.  Elle  est  furieuse  cont  vous,  allans  tons  les  jours  chercher 
ley  Roy  (d'icy)  de'mandant  a  gran  cri  revanche  pour  son  Mary.  Elle  ne 
veux  voyre  ni  entende  parlay  de  vous :  pourtant  elle  ne  fay  qu'en  parlay 
milfoy  par  jour.  Quand  vous  seray  hor  prison  venay  me  voyre.  J'auray 
soing  de  vous.  Si  cette  petite  Prude  veut  se  de'faire  de  song  pety  Monste 
(Helas  je  craing  qiiil  ne  soy  trotar !)  je  m'en  chargeray.  J'ay  encor  quelqu 
interay  et  quelques  escus  de  costay. 

"  La  Veuve  se  raccommode  avec  Miladi  Marlboro  qui  est  tout  pui^ante 
avecque  la  Reine  Anne.  Cet  dam  sente'raysent  pour  la  petite  prude ;  qui 
pourctant  a  un  fi  du  mesme  asge  que  vous  savay. 

"  En  sortant  de  prisong  venez  icy.  Je  ne  puy  vous  recevoir  chaymoy 
k  cause  des  mechansetes  du  monde,  may  pre  du  moy  vous  aurez  logement. 

"  ISABELLE    ViCOMTESSE    d'EsMOND." 

IN^rchioness  of  Esmond  this  lad}'  sometimes  called  herself, 
in  virtue  of  that  patent  which  had  been  given  by  the  late  King 
James  to  Harry  Esmond's  father ;  and  in  this  state  she  had 
her  train  carried  by  a  knight's  wife,  a  cup  and  cover  of  assay 
to  drink  from,  and  fringed  cloth. 

He  who  was  of  the  same  age  as  little  Francis,  whom  we 
shall  henceforth  call  Viscount  Castlewood  here,  was  H.  R.  H. 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  born  in  the  same  year  and  month  with 
Frank,  and  just  proclaimed  at  Saint  Germains,  King  of  Great 
Britain,  France,  and  Ireland. 


158  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

CHAPTER  III. 

I  TAKE   THE    QUEEN's    PAY   IN    QUIN'S    REGIMENT. 

The  fellow  in  the  orange- tawny  livery  with  blue  lace  and 
facings  was  in  waiting  when  Esmond  came  out  of  prison,  and, 
taking  the  3'oung  gentleman's  slender  baggage,  led  the  way  out 
of  that  odious  Newgate,  and  by  Fleet  Conduit,  down  to  the 
Thames,  where  a  pair  of  oars  was  called,  and  they  went  up 
the  river  to  Chelsey.  Esmond  thought  the  sun  had  never 
shone  so  bright ;  nor  the  air  felt  so  fresh  and  exhilarating. 
Temple  Garden,  as  they  rowed  by,  looked  like  the,  garden  of 
Eden  to  him,  and  the  aspect  of  the  quays,  wharves,  and  build- 
ings by  the  river,  Somerset  House,  and  Westminster  (where 
the  splendid  new  bridge  was  just  beginning),  Lambeth  tower 
and  palace,  and  that  busy  shining  scene  of  the  Thames 
swarming  with  boats  and  barges,  filled  his  heart  with  pleasure 
and  cheerfulness  —  as  well  such  a  beautiful  scene  might  to  one 
who  had  been  a  prisoner  so  long,  and  with  so  many  dark 
thoughts  deepening  the  gloom  of  his  captivity.  They  rowed 
up  at  length  to  the  pretty  village  of  Chelse}^,  where  the  nobility 
have  many  handsome  country-houses  ;  and  so  came  to  my 
Lady  Viscountess's  house,  a  cheerful  new  house  in  the  row 
facing  the  river,  with  a  handsome  garden  behind  it,  and  a 
pleasant  look-out  both  towards  Surrej'  and  Kensington,  where 
stands  the  noble  ancient  palace  of  the  Lord  Warwick,  Harr3''s 
reconciled  adversary. 

Here  in  her  ladyship's  saloon,  the  young  man  saw  again 
some  of  those  pictures  which  had  been  at  Castlewood,  and 
which  she  had  removed  thence  on  the  death  of  her  lord, 
Harry's  father.  Specially,  and  in  the  place  of  honor,  was 
Sir  Peter  Lely's  picture  of  the  Honorable  Mistress  Isabella 
Esmond  as  Diana,  in  yellow  satin,  with  a  bow  in  her  hand  and 
a  crescent  in  her  forehead ;  and  dogs  frisking  about  her. 
'Twas  painted  about  the  time  when  royal  Endymions  were  said 
to  find  favor  with  this  virgin  huntress  ;  and,  as  goddesses 
have  youth  perpetual,  this  one  believed  to  the  day  of  her 
death  that  she  never  grew  older:  and  always  persisted  in 
supposing  the  picture  was  still  like  her. 

After  he  had  been  shown  to  her  room  by  the  groom  of 
the  chamber,  who  filled  many   ofiSces   besides   in   her   lady- 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  159 

ship's  modest  household,  and  after  a  proper  interval,  his 
elderly  goddess  Diana  vouchsafed  to  appear  to  the  young  man. 
A  blackamoor  in  a  Turkish  habit,  with  red  boots  and  a  silver 
collar,  on  which  the  Viscountess's  arms  were  engraven,  pre- 
ceded her  and  bore  her  cushion  ;  then  came  her  gentlewoman  ; 
a  little  pack  of  spaniels  barking  and  frisking  about  preceded 
the  austere  huntress  —  then,  behold,  the  Viscountess  herself 
"  dropping  odors."  Esmond  recollected  from  his  childhood 
that  rich  aroma  of  musk  which  his  mother-in-law  (for  she 
may  be  called  so)  exhaled.  As  the  sky  grows  redder  and 
redder  towards  sunset,  so,  in  the  decline  of  her  years,  the 
cheeks  of  m}^  Lady  Dowager  blushed  more  deepl}'.  Her  face 
was  illuminated  with  vermilion,  which  ax)peared  the  brighter 
from  the  white  paint  employed  to  set  it  off.  She  wore  the 
ringlets  which  had  been  in  fashion  in  King  Charles's  time ; 
whereas  the  ladies  of  King  William's  had  head-dresses  like  the 
towers  of  Cybele.  Her  e^'es  gleamed  out  from  the  midst  of 
this  queer  structure  of  paint,  dyes,  and  pomatums.  Such  was 
my  Lady  Viscountess,  Mr.  Esmond's  father's  widow. 

He  made  her  such  a  profound  bow  as  her  dignity  and  rela- 
tionship merited,  and  advanced  with  the  greatest  gravity,  and 
once  more  kissed  that  hand,  upon  the  trembling  knuckles  of 
which  glittered  a  score  of  rings  —  remembering  old  times  when 
that  trembling  hand  made  him  tremble.  "•  Marchioness,"  says 
he,  bowing,  and  on  one  knee,  "is  it  only  the  hand  I  may 
have  the  honor  of  saluting  ?  "  For,  accompanying  that  inward 
laughter,  which  the  sight  of  such  an  astonishing  old  figure 
might  well  produce  in  the  young  man,  there  was  good  will  too, 
and  the  kindness  of  consanguinity.  She  had  been  his  father's 
wife,  and  was  his  grandfather's  daughter.  She  had  suflf'ered 
him  in  old  days,  and  was  kind  to  him  now  after  her  fashion. 
And  now  that  bar- sinister  was  removed  from  Esmond's  thought, 
and  "that  secret  opprobrium  no  longer  cast  upon  his  mind,  he 
was  pleased  to  feel  family  ties  and  own  them  —  perhaps  secretly 
vain  of  the  sacrifice  he  had  made,  and  to  think  that  he,  Es- 
mond, was  really  the  chief  of  his  house,  and  only  prevented  by 
his  own  magnanimit}"  from  advancing  his  claim. 

At  least,  ever  since  he  had  learned  that  secret  from  his  poor 
patron  on  his  dying  bed,  actually  as  he  was  standing  beside  it, 
he  had  felt  an  independency  which  he  had  never  known  before, 
and  which  since  did  not  desert  him.  So  he  called  his  old  aunt 
Marchioness,  but  with  an  air  as  if  he  was  the  Marquis  of 
Esmond  who  so  addressed  her. 

Did  she  read  in  the  young  gentleman's  eyes,  which  had  now 


160  THE  HISTORY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

no  fear  of  hers  or  their  superannuated  authority,  that  he  knew 
or  suspected  the  truth  about  his  birth?  She  gave  a  start  of 
surprise  at  his  altered  manner :  indeed,  it  was  quite  a  different 
bearing  to  that  of  the  Cambridge  student  who  had  paid  her  a 
visit  two  years  since,  and  whom  she  had  dismissed  with  five 
pieces  sent  by  the  groom  of  the  chamber.  She  eyed  him,  then 
trembled  a  little  more  than  was  her  w^ont,  perhaps,  and  said, 
''  WelcoQie,  cousin,"  in  a  frightened  voice. 

His  resolution,  as  has  been  said  before,  had  been  quite 
different,  namely,  so  to  bear  himself  through  hfe  as  if  the 
secret  of  his  birth  was  not  known  to  him  ;  but  he  suddenly  and 
rightl}^  determined  on  a  different  course.  He  asked  that  her 
ladyship's  attendants  should  be  dismissed,  and  when  they 
were  private  —  "  Welcome,  nephew,  at  least,  madam,  it  should 
be,"  he  said.  "A  great  wrong  has  been  done  to  me  and  to 
you,  and  to  my  poor  mother,  who  is  no  more." 

"  I  declare  before  heaven  that  I  was  guiltless  of  it,"  she 
cried  out,  giving  up  her  cause  at  once.  "  It  was  your  wicked 
father  who  —  " 

"  Who  brought  this  dishonor  on  our  famil}^,"  says  Mr. 
Esmond.  "I  know  it  full  well.  I  want  to  disturb  no  one. 
Those  who  are  in  present  possession  have  been  my  dearest 
benefactors,  and  are  quite  innocent  of  intentional  wrong  to 
me.  The  late  lord,  my  dear  patron,  knew  not  the  truth 
until  a  few  months  before  his  death,  when  Father  Holt 
brought  the  new^s  to  him." 

' '  The  wretch  !  he  had  it  in  confession  !  he  had  it  in  con- 
fession !  "  cried  out  the  Dowager  Lady. 

"Not  so.  He  learned  it  elsewhere  as  well  as  in  confes- 
sion," Mr.  Esmond  answered.  "  My  father,  when  wounded 
at  the  Boyne,  told  the  truth  to  a  French  priest,  who  was  in 
hiding  after  the  battle,  as  well  as  to  the  priest  there,  at  whose 
house  he  died.  This  gentleman  did  not  think  fit  to  divulge 
the  story  till  he  met  with  Mr.  Holt  at  Saint  Omer's.  And 
the  latter  kept  it  back  for  his  own  purpose,  and  until  he  had 
learned  whether  my  mother  was  alive  or  no.  She  is  dead 
years  since,  my  poor  patron  told  me  with  his  d3ing  breath, 
and  I  doubt  him  not.  I  do  not  know  even  whether  I  could 
prove  a  marriage.  I  would  not  if  I  could.  I  do  not  care  to 
bring  shame  on  our  name,  or  grief  upon  those  whom  I  love, 
however  hardl}^  the}'  may  use  me.  My  father's  son,  madam, 
won't  aggravate  the  wrong  my  father  did  3'ou.  Continue  to  be 
his  widow,  and  give  me  your  kindness.  'Tis  all  I  ask  from 
you  ;  and  I  shall  never  speak  of  this  matter  again." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  161 

''Mais  vous  etes  un  noble  jeune  homme  ! "  breaks  out  my 
\sidy,  speaking,  as  usual  with  her  when  she  was  agitated,  in 
the  French  language. 

''Noblesse  oblige,"  says  Mr.  Esmond,  making  her  a  low 
bow.  ''  There  are  those  alive  to  whom,  in  return  for  their  love 
to  me,  I  often  fondly  said  I  would  give  my  life  away.  Shall  I 
be  their  enemy  now,  and  quarrel  about  a  title?  What  matters 
who  has  it?     'Tis  with  the  family  still." 

' '  What  can  there  be  in  that  little  prude  of  a  woman  that 
makes  men  so  raffoler  about  her  ?  "  cries  out  mj'  Lad}^  Dowager. 
"  She  was  here  for  a  month  petitioning  the  King.  She  is  pretty, 
and  well  conserved ;  but  she  has  not  the  bel  air.  In  his  late 
Majesty's  Court  all  the  men  pretended  to  admire  her,  and  she 
was  no  better  than  a  httle  wax  doll.  She  is  better  now,  and 
looks  the  sister  of  her  daughter ;  but  what  mean  you  all  by 
bepraising  her?  Mr.  Steele,  who  was  in  waiting  on  Prince 
George,  seeing  her  with  her  two  children  going  to  Kensington, 
writ  a  poem  about  her,  and  savs  he  shall  wear  her  colors,  and 
dress  in  black  for  the  future.  Mr.  Congreve  says  he  will  write 
a  '  Mourning  Widow,'  that  shall  be  better  than  his  '  Mourning 
Bride.'  Though  their  husbands  quarrelled  and  fought  when 
that  wretch  Churchill  deserted  the  King  (for  which  he  deserved 
to  be  hung).  Lady  Marlborough  has  again  gone  wild  about  the 
little  widow ;  insulted  me  in  my  own  drawing-room,  by  sajing 
'twas  not  the  old  widow,  but  the  young  Viscountess,  she  had 
(jome  to  see.  Little  Castle  wood  and  little  Lord  Churchill  are 
to  be  sworn  friends,  and  have  boxed  each  other  twice  or  thrice 
like  brothers  already.  'Twas  that  wicked  young  Mohun  who, 
coming  back  from  the  provinces  last  year,  where  he  had  disin- 
terred her,  raved  about  her  all  the  winter ;  said  she  was  a  pearl 
set  before  swine ;  and  killed  poor  stupid  Frank.  The  quarrel 
was  all  about  his  wife.  I  know  'twas  all  about  her.  Was 
there  anything  between  her  and  Mohun,  nephew?  Tell  me 
now  —  was  there  anything  ?  About  yourself,  I  do  not  ask  you 
to  answer  questions." 

Mr.  Esmond  blushed  up.  "  My  lady's  virtue  is  like  that  of 
a  saint  in  heaven,  madam,"  he  cried  out. 

"Eh!  —  mon  neveu.  Man}^  saints  get  to  heaven  after 
having  a  deal  to  repent  of.  I  believe  you  are  like  all  the  rest 
of  the  fools,  and  madly  in  love  with  her." 

"Indeed,  I  loved  and  honored  her  before  all  the  world,'* 
Esmond  answered.     "  I  take  no  shame  in  that." 

' '  And  she  has  shut  her  door  on  you  —  given  the  living  to 
that  horrid  young  cub,  son  of  that  horrid  old  bear,  Tusher,  and 

11 


162  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

says  she  will  never  see  you  more.  Monsieur  mon  neveu  —  we 
are  all  like  that.  When  I  was  a  young  woman,  I'm  positive 
that  a  thousand  duels  were  fought  about  me.  And  when  poor 
Monsieur  de  Souchy  drowned  himself  in  the  canal  at  Bruges  be- 
cause I  danced  with  Count  Springbock,  I  couldn't  squeeze  out  a 
single  tear,  but  danced  till  five  o'clock  the  next  morning.  'Twas 
the  Count  —  no,  'twas  my  Lord  Ormond  that  played  the  fiddles, 
and  his  Majest}^  did  me  the  honor  of  dancing  all  night  with 
me.  —  How  3'ou  are  grown  !  You  have  got  the  bel  air.  You 
are  a  black  man.  Our  Esmonds  are  all  black.  The  little 
prude's  son  is  fair;  so  was  his  father  —  fair  and  stupid.  You 
were  an  ugl}^  little  wretch  when  you  came  to  Castlewood  —  you 
were  all  eyes,  like  a  young  crow.  We  intended  joxx  should  be 
a  priest.  That  awful  Father  Holt  —  how  he  used  to  frighten 
me  when  I  was 'ill !  I  have  a  comfortable  director  now  —  the 
Abbe  Douillette  —  a  dear  man.  We  make  meagre  on  Fridays 
always.  My  cook  is  a  devout  pious  man.  You,  of  course, 
are  of  the  right  way  of  thinking.  The}^  say  the  Prince  of 
Orange  is  very  ill  indeed." 

In  this  way  the  old  Dowager  rattled  on  remorselessly  to  Mr. 
Esmond,  who  was  quite  astounded  with  her  present  volubility, 
contrasting  it  with  her  former  haughty  behavior  to  him.  But 
she  had  taken  him  into  favor  for  the  moment,  and  chose  not 
only  to  like  him,  as  far  as  her  nature  permitted,  but  to  be  afraid 
of  him  ;  and  he  found  himself  to  be  as  familiar  with  her  now  as 
a  young  man,  as,  when  a  bo}^,  he  had  been  timorous  and  silent. 
She  was  as  good  as  her  word  respecting  him.  She  introduced 
him  to  her  company,  of  which  she  entertained  a  good  deal  — 
of  the  adherents  of  King  James  of  course  —  and  a  great  deal 
of  loud  intriguing  took  place  over  her  card-tables.  She  pre- 
sented Mr.  Esmond  as  her  kinsman  to  manj^  persons  of  honor ; 
she  supplied  him  not  illiberally  with  money,  which  he  had  no 
scruple  in  accepting  from  her,  considering  the  relationship 
which  he  bore  to  her,  and  the  sacrifices  which  he  himself  was 
making  in  behalf  of  the  family.  But  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  continue  at  no  woman's  apron-strings  longer ;  and  perhaps 
had  cast  about  how  he  should  distinguish  himself,  and  make 
himself  a  name,  which  his  singular  fortune  had  denied  him. 
A  discontent  with  his  former  bookish  life  and  quietude, — a 
bitter  feeling  of  revolt  at  that  slavery  in  which  he  had  chosen 
to  confine  himself  for  the  sake  of  those  whose  hardness  towards 
him  make  his  heart  bleed,  —  a  restless  wish  to  see  men  and  the 
world,  —  led  him  to  think  of  the  military  profession :  at  anj' 
rate,  to  desire  to  see  a  few  campaigns,  and  accordingly  he 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  163 

pressed  his  new  patroness  to  get  him  a  pair  of  coloi^  ;  and  one 
day  had  the  honor  of  finding  himself  appointed  an  ensign  in 
Colonel  Qtiin's  regiment  of  Fusileers  on  the  Irish  establishment. 
Mr.  Esmond's  commission  was  scarce  three  weeks  old  when 
that  accident  befell  King  William  which  ended  the  life  of  the 
greatest,  the  wisest,  the  bravest,  and  most  clement  sovereign 
whom  England  ever  knew.  'Twas  the  fashion  of  the  hostile 
party  to  assail  this  great  prince's  reputation  during  his  life  ; 
but  the  joy  which  they  and  all  his  enemies  in  Europe  showed 
at  his  death,  is  a  proof  of  the  terror  in  which  they  held  him. 
Young  as  Esmond  was,  he  was  wise  enough  (and  generous 
enough  too,  let  it  be  said)  to  scorn  that  indecency  of  gratula- 
tion  which  broke  out  amongst  the  followers  of  King  James  in 
London,  upon  the  death  of  this  illustrious  prince,  this  invincible 
warrior,  this  wise  and  moderate  statesman.  Loyalty  to  the 
exiled  king's  famil}'  was  traditional,  as  has  been  said,  in  that 
house  to  which  Mr.  Esmond  belonged.  His  father's  widow 
had  all  her  hopes,  sympathies,  recollections,  prejudices,  en^ged 
on  King  James's  side  ;  and  was  certainly  as  noisy  a  conspirator 
as  ever  asserted  the  King's  rights,  or  abused  his  opponent's, 
over  a  quadrille  table  or  a  dish  of  bohea.  Her  ladyship's  house 
swarmed  with  ecclesiastics,  in  disguise  and  out ;  with  tale- 
bearers from  St.  Germains  ;  and  quidnuncs  that  knew  the  last 
news  from  Versailles ;  nay,  the  exact  force  and  number  of  the 
next  expedition  which  the  French  king  was  to  send  from  Dun- 
kirk, and  which  was  to  swallow  up  the  Prince  of  Orange,  his 
army  and  his  court.  She  had  received  the  Duke  of  Berwick 
when  he  landed  here  in  '96.  She  kept  the  glass  he  drank  from, 
vowing  she  never  would  use  it  till  she  drank  King  James  the 
Third's  health  in  it  on  his  Majesty's  return  ;  she  had  tokens 
from  the  Queen,  and  rehcs  of  the  saint  who,  if  the  story  was 
true,  had  not  alwa3's  been  a  saint  as  far  as  she  and  many  others 
were  concerned.  She  believed  in  the  miracles  wrought  at  his 
tomb,  and  had  a  hundred  authentic  stories  of  wondrous  cures 
effected  by  the  blessed  king's  rosaries,  the  medals  which  he 
wore,  the  locks  of  his  hair,  or  what  not.  Esmond  remembered 
a  score  of  marvellous  tales  which  the  credulous  old  woman  told 
him.  There  was  the  Bishop  of  Autun,  that  was  healed  of  a 
malady  he  had  for  forty  years,  and  which  left  him  after  he  said 
mass  for  the  repose  of  the  king's  soul.  There  was  M.  Marais, 
a  surgeon  in  Auvergne,  who  had  a  palsy  in  both  his  legs,  which 
was  cured  through  the  king's  intercession.  There  was  Phihp 
Pitet,  of  tlie  Benedictines,  who  had  a  suffocating  cough,  which 
wellnigh  killed  him,  but  he  besought  relief  of  heaven  through 


164  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

the  merits  and  intercession  of  the  blessed  king,  and  he  straight- 
way felt  a  profuse  sweat  breaking  out  all  over  him,  and  was 
recovered  perfectl}^  And  there  was  the  wife  of  Mons.  Leper- 
vier,  dancing-master  to  the  Duke  of  Saxe-Gotha,  who  was 
entirely  eased  of  a  rheumatism  by  the  king's  intercession,  of 
which  miracle  there  could  be  no  doubt,  for  her  surgeon  and  his 
apprentice  had  given  their  testimony,  under  oath,  that  they  did 
not  in  an}'  wa}'  contribute  to  the  cure.  Of  these  tales,  and  a 
thousand  like  them,  Mr.  Esmond  believed  as  much  as  he  chose. 
His  kinswoman's  greater  faith  had  swallow  for  them  all. 

The  English  High  Church  party  did  not  adopt  these  legends. 
But  truth  and  honor,  as  the}^  thought,  bound  them  to  the  ex- 
iled king's  side  ;  nor  had  the  banished  family  any  warmer  sup- 
porter than  that  kind  lady  of  Castlewood,  in  whose  house 
Esmond  was  brought  up.  She  influenced  her  husband,  very 
much  more  perhaps  than  my  lord  knew,  who  admired  his  wife 
prodigiously  though  he  might  be  inconstant  to  her,  and  who, 
adverse  to  the  trouble  of  thinking  himself,  gladly  enough  adopted 
the  opinions  which  she  chose  for  him.  To  one  of  her  simple 
and  faithful  heart,  allegiance  to  any  sovereign  but  the  one  was 
impossible.  To  serve  King  William  for  interest's  sake  would 
have  been  a  monstrous  hypocrisy  and  treason.  Her  pure  con- 
science could  no  more  have  consented  to  it  than  to  a  theft,  a 
forger}',  or  any  other  base  action.  Lord  Castlewood  might 
have  been  won  over,  no  doubt,  but  his  wife  never  could  :  and 
he  submitted  his  conscience  to  hers  in  this  case  as  he  did  in 
most  others,  when  he  was  not  tempted  too  sorely.  And  it 
was  from  his  affection  and  gratitude  most  likely,  and  from  that 
eager  devotion  for  his  mistress,  which  characterized  all  Es- 
mond's youth,  that  the  young  man  subscribed  to  this,  and 
other  articles  of  faith,  which  his  fond  benefactress  set  him. 
Had  she  been  a  Whig,  he  had  been  one ;  had  she  followed  Mr. 
Fox,  and  turned  Quaker,  no  doubt  he  would  have  abjured 
ruffles  and  a  periwig,  and  have  forsworn  swords,  lace-coats, 
and  clocked  stockings.  In  the  scholars'  boyish  disputes  at  the 
Universit}',  where  parties  ran  very  high,  Esmond  was  noted  as 
a  Jacobite,  and  very  Hkely  from  vanity  as  much  as  affection 
took  the  side  of  his  family. 

Almost  the  whole  of  the  clergy  of  the  country  and  more 
than  a  half  of  the  nation  were  on  this  side.  Ours  is  the  most 
loyal  people  in  the  world  surely ;  we  admire  our  kings,  and  are 
faithful  to  them  long  after  they  have  ceased  to  be  true  to  us. 
*Tis  a  wonder  to  any  one  who  looks  back  at  the  histor}^  of  the 
Stuart  family  to  think  how  they  kicked  their  crowns  away  from 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  165 

them  ;  how  they  flung  away  chances  after  chances  ;  what  treas- 
ures of  loyalty  they  dissipated,  and  how  fatally  they  were  bent 
on  consummating  their  own  ruin.  If  ever  men  had  fidelity, 
'twas  they ;  if  ever  men  squandered  opportunity,  'twas  they ; 
and,  of  all  the  enemies  they  had,  they  themselves  were  the 
most  fatal.* 

When  the  Princess  Anne  succeeded,  the  wearied  nation  was 
glad  enough  to  cry  a  truce  from  all  these  wars,  controversies, 
and  conspiracies,  and  to  accept  in  the  person  of  a  Princess  of 
the  blood  royal  a  compromise  between  the  parties  into  which 
the  countr}^  was  divided.  The  Tories  could  serve  under  her 
with  easy  consciences  ;  though  a  Tory  herself,  she  represented 
the  triumph  of  the  Whig  opinion.  The  people  of  England, 
always  liking  that  their  Princes  should  be  attached  to  their 
own  families,  were  pleased  to  think  the  Princess  was  faithful 
to  hers  ;  and  up  to  the  very  last  day  and  hour  of  her  reign, 
and  but  for  that  fatality  which  he  inherited  from  his  fathers 
along  with  their  claims  to  the  English  crown.  King  James  the 
Third  might  have  worn  it.  But  he  neither  knew  how  to  wait 
an  opportunity,  nor  to  use  it  when  he  had  it ;  he  was  venture- 
some when  he  ought  to  have  been  cautious,  and  cautious  when 
he  ought  to  have  dared  everything.  'Tis  with  a  sort  of  rage  at 
his  inaptitude  that  one  thinks  of  his  melancholj^  story.  Do  the 
Fates  deal  more  specially  with  kings  than  with  common  men? 
One  is  apt  to  imagine  so,  in  considering  the  history  of  that 
royal  race,  in  whose  behalf  so  much  fideUt}*,  so  much  valor,  so 
much  blood  were  desperately  and  bootlessly  expended. 

The  King  dead  then,  the  Princess  Anne  (ugly  Anne  Hyde's 
daughter,  our  Dowager  at  Chelsey  called  her)  was  proclaimed 
by  trumpeting  heralds  all  over  the  town  from  Westminster  to 
Ludgate  Hill,  amidst  immense  jubilations  of  the  people. 

Next  week  my  Lord  Marlborough  was  promoted  to  the 
Garter,  and  to  be  Captain-General  of  her  Majesty's  forces  at 
home  and  abroad.  This  appointment  onl}^  inflamed  the  Dow- 
ager's rage,  or,  as  she  thought  it,  her  fidelity  to  her  rightful 
sovereign.  "The  Princess  is  but  a  puppet  in  the  hands  of 
that  fury  of  a  woman,  who  comes  into  my  drawing-room  and 
insults  me  to  m}'  face.  What  can  come  to  a  country  that  is 
given  over  to  such  a  woman?"  says  the  Dowager:  "As  for 
that  double-faced  traitor,  my  Lord  Marlborough,  he  has  be- 
traj'ed  every  man  and  everj^  woman  with  whom  he  has  had  to 

*  ''Cl  ttSttoi,  oiov  Stj  vv  Q^ovs  $poTol  alriSwurai^ 
€|  T]fi4<au  yap  <paal  Aca/c'  ^fiixevai,  ol  5e  Kal  avroi 
acpi^aiy  a.Ta<rda\i7)criv  vir^p  /j,6pov  dAye'  exovaiy. 


166  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

deal,  except  his  horrid  wife,  who  makes  him  tremble.  'Tis  all 
over  with  the  country  when  it  has  got  into  the  clutches  of  such 
wretches  as  these." 

Esmond's  old  kinswoman  saluted  the  new  powers  in  this 
way  ;  but  some  good  fortune  at  last  occurred  to  a  family  which 
stood  in  great  need  of  it,  by  the  advancement  of  these  famous 
personages  who  benefited  humbler  people  that  had  the  luck  of 
being  in  their  favor.  Before  Mr.  Esmond  left  England  in  the 
month  of  August,  and  being  then  at  Portsmouth,  where  he  had 
joined  his  regiment,  and  was  busy  at  drill,  learning  the  practice 
and  mysteries  of  the  musket  and  pike,  he  heard  that  a  pension 
on  the  Stamp  Office  had  been  got  for  his  late  beloved  mistress, 
and  that  the  young  Mistress  Beatrix  was  also  to  be  taken  into 
court.  So  much  good,  at  least,  had  come  of  the  poor  widow's 
visit  to  London,  not  revenge  upon  her  husband's  enemies, 
but  reconcilement  to  old  friends,  who  pitied,  and  seemed  in- 
clined to  serve  her.  As  for  the  comrades  in  prison  and  the 
late  misfortune,  Colonel  Westbury  was  with  the  Captain-General 
gone  to  Holland ;  Captain  Macartne}^  was  now  at  Portsmouth, 
with  his  regiment  of  Fusileers  and  the  force  under  command  of 
his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  bound  for  Spain  it  was  said ; 
my  Lord  Warwick  was  returned  home ;  and  Lord  Mohun,  so 
far  from  being  punished  for  the  homicide  which  had  brought  so 
much  grief  and  change  into  the  Esmond  family,  was  gone  in 
company  of  my  Lord  Macclesfield's  splendid  embassy  to  the 
Elector  of  Hanover,  carrying  the  Garter  to  his  Highness,  and 
a  complimentary  letter  from  the  Queen. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

RECAPITULATIONS. 

From  such  fitful  lights  as  could  be  cast  upon  his  dark  history 
by  the  broken  narrative  of  his  poor  patron,  torn  by  remorse  and 
struggling  in  the  last  pangs  of  dissolution,  Mr.  Esmond  had  been 
made  to  understand  so  far,  that  his  mother  was  long  since  dead  ; 
and  so  there  could  be  no  question  as  regarded  her  or  her  honor, 
tarnished  by  her  husband's  desertion  and  injury,  to  infiuence 
her  son  in  any  steps  which  he  might  take  either  for  prosecuting 
or  relinquishing  his  own  just  claims.  It  appeared  from  my  poor 
lord's  hurried  confession,  that  he  had  been  made  acquainted  with 


THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  167 

the  real  facts  of  the  case  only  two  years  since,  when  Mr.  Holt 
visited  him,  and  would  have  implicated  him  in  one  of  those 
man}'  conspiracies  by  which  the  secret  leaders  of  King  James's 
part}'  in  this  country  were  ever  endeavoring  to  destroy  the 
Prince  of  Orange's  life  or  power :  conspiracies  so  like  murder, 
so  cowardly  in  the  means  used,  so  wicked  in  the  end,  that  our 
nation  has  sure  done  well  in  throwing  off  all  allegiance  and 
fidelity  to  the  unhappy  family  that  could  not  vindicate  its  right 
except  by  such  treachery  —  by  such  dark  intrigue  and  base 
agents.  There  were  designs  against  King  William  that  were  no 
more  honorable  than  the  ambushes  of  cut-throats  and  footpads. 
'Tis  humihating  to  think  that  a  great  Prince,  possessor  of  a  great 
and  sacred  right,  and  upholder  of  a  great  cause,  should  have 
stooped  to  such  baseness  of  assassination  and  treasons  as  are 
proved  by  the  unfortunate  King  James's  own  warrant  and  sign 
manual  given  to  his  supporters  in  this  country.  What  he  and 
they  called  levying  war  was,  in  truth,  no  better  than  instigating 
murder.  The  noble  Prince  of  Orange  burst  magnanimously 
through  those  feeble  meshes  of  conspiracy  in  which  his  enemies 
tried  to  envelop  him :  it  seemed  as  if  their  cowardly  daggers 
broke  upon  the  breast  of  his  undaunted  resolution.  After  King 
James's  death,  the  Queen  and  her  people  at  St.  Germains  — 
priests  and  women  for  the  most  part  —  continued  their  intrigues 
in  behalf  of  the  young  Prince,  James  the  Third,  as  he  was  called 
in  France  and  by  his  party  here  (this  Prince,  or  Chevalier  de 
St.  George,  was  born  in  the  same  year  with  Esmond's  young 
pupil  Frank,  my  Lord  Viscount's  son)  ;  and  the  Prince's  affairs, 
being  in  the  hands  of  priests  and  women,  were  conducted  as 
priests  and  women  will  conduct  them,  artfully,  cruelly,  feebly, 
and  to  a  certain  bad  issue.  The  moral  of  the  Jesuits'  story  I 
think  as  wholesome  a  one  as  ever  was  writ :  the  artfullest,  the 
wisest,  the  most  toilsome,  and  dexterous  plot-builders  in  the 
world  —  there  always  comes  a  day  when  the  roused  public  indig- 
nation kicks  their  flimsy  edifice  down,  and  sends  its  cowardly 
enemies  a-flying.  Mr.  Swift  hath  finely  described  that  passion 
for  intrigue,  that  love  of  secrecy,  slander,  and  lying,  which  be- 
longs to  weak  people,  hangers-on  of  weak  courts.  'Tis  the 
nature  of  such  to  hate  and  envy  the  strong,  and  conspire  their 
ruin ;  and  the  conspiracy  succeeds  very  well,  and  everything 
presages  the  satisfactory  overthrow  of  the  great  victim ;  until 
one  day  Gulliver  rouses  himself,  shakes  off  the  little  vermin 
of  an  enemy,  and  walks  away  unmolested.  Ah !  the  Irish 
soldiers  might  well  say  after  the  Boyne,  "Change  kings  with 
us  and  we  will  fight  it  over  again."     Indeed,  the  fight  was  not 


168  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

fair  between  the  two.  'Twas  a  weak,  priest-ridden,  woman- 
ridden  man,  with  such  puny  allies  and  weapons  as  his  own  poor 
nature  led  him  to  choose,  contending  against  the  schemes, 
the  generalship,  the  wisdom,  and  the  heart  of  a  hero. 

On  one  of  these  many  coward's  errands  then,  (for,  as  I  view 
them  now,  I  can  call  them  no  less,)  Mr.  Holt  had  come  to  my 
lord  at  Castlewood,  proposing  some  infallible  plan  for  the  Prince 
of  Orange's  destruction,  in  which  my  Lord  Viscount,  loyalist  as 
he  was,  had  indignantly  refused  to  join.  As  far  as  Mr.  Esmond 
could  gather  from  his  dying  words,  Holt  came  to  m}'  lord  with 
a  plan  of  insurrection,  and  offer  of  the  renewal,  in  his  person, 
of  that  marquis's  title  which  King  James  had  conferred  on  the 
preceding  viscount ;  and  on  refusal  of  tliis  bribe,  a  threat  was 
made,  on  Holt's  part,  to  upset  my  Lord  Viscount's  claim  to 
his  estate  and  title  of  Castlewood  altogether.  To  back  this 
astounding  piece  of  intelligence,  of  which  Henry  Esmond's  patron 
now  had  the  first  light,  Holt  came  armed  with  the  late  lord's 
dying  declaration,  after  the  affair  of  the  Boyne,  at  Trim,  in  Ire- 
land, made  both  to  the  Irish  priest  and  a  French  ecclesiastic  of 
Holt's  order,  that  was  with  King  James's  arm}- .  Holt  showed, 
or  pretended  to  show,  the  marriage  certificate  of  the  late  Vis- 
count Esmond  with  my  mother,  in  the  city  of  Brussels,  in  the 
year  1677,  when  the  viscount,  then  Thomas  Esmond,  was  serv- 
ing with  the  English  army  in  Flanders  ;  he  could  show,  he  said, 
that  this  Gertrude,  deserted  by  her  husband  long  since,  was 
alive,  and  a  professed  nun  in  the  3'ear  1685,  at  Brussels,  in 
which  3'ear  Thomas  Esmond  married  his  uncle's  daughter,  Isa- 
bella, now  called  Viscountess  Dowager  of  Castlewood ;  and 
leaving  him,  for  twelve  hours,  to  consider  this  astounding  news 
(so  the  poor  d3'ing  lord  said) ,  disappeared  with  his  papers  in 
the  mysterious  wsiy  in  which  he  came.  Esmond  knew  how, 
well  enough :  b}'  that  window  from  which  he  had  seen  the 
Father  issue  :  —  but  there  was  no  need  to  explain  to  my  poor 
lord,  onl}'  to  gather  from  his  parting  lips  the  words  which  he 
would  soon  be  able  to  utter  no  more. 

Ere  the  twelve  hours  were  over.  Holt  himself  was  a  prisoner, 
implicated  in  Sir  John  Fenwick's  conspirac}',  and  locked  up  at 
Hexton  first,  whence  he  was  transferred  to  the  Tower ;  leaving 
the  poor  Lord  Viscount,  who  was  not  aware  of  the  others  being 
taken,  in  daily  apprehension  of  his  return,  when  (as  my  Lord 
Castlewood  declared,  calling  God  to  witness,  and  with  tears  in 
his  dying  eyes)  it  had  been  his  intention  at  once  to  give  up  his 
estate  and  his  title  to  their  proper  owner,  and  to  retire  to  his 
own  house  at  Walcote  with  his  family.     "  And  wouJd  to  God  I 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  169 

had  done  it,"  the  poor  lord  said.  "  I  would  not  be  here  now, 
wounded  to  death,  a  miserable,  stricken  man  !  " 

M}'  lord  waited  day  after  day,  and,  as  may  be  supposed,  no 
messenger  came  ;  but  at  a  month's  end  Holt  got  means  to  con- 
vey to  him  a  message  out  of  the  Tower,  wliich  was  to  this 
effect :  that  he  should  consider  all  unsaid  that  had  been  said, 
and  that  things  were  as  they  were. 

"I  had  a  sore  temptation,"  said  m}'  poor  lord.  "  Since  I 
had  come  into  this  cursed  title  of  Castlewood,  which  hath  never 
prospered  with  me,  I  have  spent  far  more  than  the  income  of 
that  estate,  and  my  paternal  one,  too.  I  calculated  all  my 
means  down  to  the  last  shilling,  and  found  I  never  could  pay 
you  back,  my  poor  Harry,  whose  fortune  I  had  had  for  twelve 
years.  My  wife  and  children  must  have  gone  out  of  the  house 
dishonored,  and  beggars.  God  knows,  it  hath  been  a  miserable 
one  for  me,  and  mine.  Like  a  coward,  I  clung  to  that  respite 
which  Holt  gave  me.  I  kept  the  truth  from  Rachel  and  you.  I 
tried  to  win  money  of  Mohun,  and  only  plunged  deeper  into 
debt ;  I  scarce  dared  look  thee  in  the  face  when  I  saw  thee. 
This  sword  hath  been  hanging  over  my  head  these  two  years. 
I  swear  I  felt  happy  when  Mohun's  blade  entered  m}-  side." 

After  lying  ten  months  in  the  Tower,  Holt,  against  whom 
nothing  could  be  found  except  that  he  was  a  Jesuit  priest,  known 
to  be  in  King  James's  interest,  was  put  on  shipboard  by  the 
incorrigible  forgiveness  of  King  AYilliam,  who  promised  him, 
however,  a  hanging  if  ever  he  should  again  set  foot  on  English 
shore.  More  than  once,  whilst  he  was  in  prison  himself,  Esmond 
had  thought  where  those  papers  could  be,  which  the  Jesuit  had 
shown  to  his  patron,  and  which  had  such  an  interest  for  himself. 
The}'  were  not  found  on  Mr.  Holt's  person  when  that  Father 
was  apprehended,  for  had  such  been  the  case  my  Lords  of  the 
Council  had  seen  them,  and  this  family  history  had  long  since 
been  made  public.  However,  Esmond  cared  not  to  seek  the 
papers.  His  resolution  being  taken ;  his  poor  mother  dead  ; 
what  matter  to  him  that  documents  existed  proving  his  right  to 
a  title  which  he  was  determined  not  to  claim,  and  of  which  he 
vowed  never  to  deprive  that  family  which  he  loved  best  in  the 
world?  Perhaps  he  took  a  greater  pride  out  of  his  sacrifice 
than  he  would  have  had  in  those  honors  which  he  was  resolved 
to  forego.  Again,  as  long  as  these  titles  were  not  forthcoming, 
Esmond's  kinsman,  dear  young  Francis,  was  the  honorable  and 
undisputed  owner  of  the  Castlewood  estate  and  title.  The  mere 
word  of  a  Jesuit  could  not  overset  Frank's  right  of  occupancy, 
and  so  Esmond's  mind  felt  actually  at  ease  to  think  the  papers 


170  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

were  missing,  and  in  their  absence  his  dear  mistress  and  her 
son  the  lawful  Lad}^  and  Lord  of  Castle  wood. 

Very  soon  after  his  liberation,  Mr.  Esmond  made  it  his  busi- 
ness to  ride  to  that  village  of  Ealing  where  he  had  passed  his 
earliest  years  in  this  country,  and  to  see  if  his  old  guardians 
were  still  alive  and  inhabitants  of  that  place.  But  the  onlj'  re- 
iique  which  he  found  of  old  M.  Pastoureau  was  a  stone  in  the 
churchyard,  which  told  that  Athanasius  Pastoureau,  a  native  of 
Flanders,  lay  there  buried,  aged  87  years.  The  old  man's  cot- 
tage, which  Esmond  perfectly  recollected,  and  the  garden  (where 
in  his  childhood  he  had  passed  many  hours  of  pla}^  and  reverie, 
and  had  many  a  beating  from  his  termagant  of  a  foster-mother) , 
were  now  in  the  occupation  of  quite  a  different  familj' ;  and  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  he  could  learn  in  the  village  what  had 
come  of  Pastoureau's  widow  and  children.  The  clerk  of  the 
parish  recollected  her  —  the  old  man  was  scarce  altered  in  the 
fourteen  years  that  had  passed  since  last  Esmond  set  eyes  on 
him.  It  appeared  she  had  pretty  soon  consoled  herself  after 
the  death  of  her  old  husband,  whom  she  ruled  over,  by  taking 
a  new  one  younger  than  herself,  who  spent  her  money  and  ill- 
treated  her  and  her  children.  The  girl  died ;  one  of  the  bo3^s 
'listed ;  the  other  had  gone  apprentice.  Old  Mr.  Rogers,  the 
clerk,  said  he  had  heard  that  Mrs.  Pastoureau  was  dead  too. 
She  and  her  husband  had  left  Ealing  this  seven  3'ear ;  and  so 
Mr.  Esmond's  hopes  of  gaining  any  information  regarding  his 
parentage  from  this  family  were  brought  to  an  end.  He  gave 
the  old  clerk  a  crown-piece  for  his  news,  smiling  to  think  of  the 
time  when  he  and  his  little  playfellows  had  slunk  out  of  the 
church3^ard  or  hidden  behind  the  gravestones,  at  the  approach 
of  this  awful  authority. 

Who  was  his  mother?  What  had  her  name  been?  When 
did  she  die  ?  Esmond  longed  to  find  some  one  who  could  answer 
these  questions  to  him,  and  thought  even  of  putting  them  to 
his  aunt  the  Viscountess,  who  had  innocently  taken  the  name 
which  belonged  of  right  to  Henry's  mother.  But  she  knew 
nothing,  or  chose  to  know  nothing,  on  this  subject,  nor,  indeed, 
could  Mr.  Esmond  press  her  much  to  speak  on  it.  Father  Holt 
was  the  only  man  who  could  enlighten  him,  and  Esmond  felt  he 
must  wait  until  some  fresh  chance  or  new  intrigue  might  put 
him  face  to  face  with  his  old  friend,  or  bring  that  restless  inde- 
fatigable spirit  back  to  England  again. 

The  appointment  to  his  ensigncy,  and  the  preparations 
necessar}'  for  the  campaign,  presently  gave  the  young  gentle- 
man other  matters  to  think  of.     His  new  patroness  treated  him 


TPIE  HISTORY  OF   HET^RY  ESMOND.  171 

very  kindly  and  liberally  ;  she  promised  to  make  interest  and 
pay  money,  too,  to  get  him  a  compam'  speedily  ;  she  bade  him 
procure  a  handsome  outfit,  both  of  clothes  and  of  arms,  and 
was  pleased  to  admire  him  when  he  made  his  first  appearance 
in  his  laced  scarlet  coat,  and  to  permit  him  to  salute  her  on  the 
occasion  of  this  interesting  investiture.  "  Red,"  saj's  she,  toss- 
ing up  her  old  head,  ''  hath  alwa3's  been  the  color  worn  by  the 
Esmonds."  And  so  her  ladyship  wore  it  on  her  own  cheeks 
very  faithfulh' to  the  last.  She  would  have  him  be  dressed,  she 
said,  as  became  his  father's  son,  and  paid  cheerfully  for  his  five- 
pound  beaver,  his  black  buckled  periwig,  and  his  fine  holland 
shirts,  and  his  swords,  and  his  pistols,  mounted  with  silver. 
Since  the  day  he  was  born,  poor  Harry  had  never  looked  such  a 
fine  gentleman  :  his  liberal  step-mother  filled  his  purse  with  guin- 
eas, too,  some  of  which  Captain  Steele  and  a  few  choice  spirits 
helped  Harr}'  to  spend  in  an  entertainment  which  Dick  ordered 
(and,  indeed,  w^ould  have  paid  for,  but  that  he  had  no  money  when 
the  reckoning  was  called  for ;  nor  would  the  landlord  give  him 
an}^  more  credit)  at  the  "  Garter,"  over  against  the  gate  of  the 
Palace,  in  Pall  Mall. 

The  old  Viscountess,  indeed,  if  she  had  done  Esmond  any 
wrong  formerly,  seemed  inclined  to  repair  it  b}'  the  present  kind- 
ness of  her  behavior :  she  embraced  him  copiously  at  parting, 
wept  plentifully,  bade  him  write  by  every  packet,  and  gave  him 
an  inestimable  rehc,  which  she  besought  him  to  wear  round  his 
neck  —  a  medal,  blessed  by  I  know  not  what  pope,  and  worn 
bj^  his  late  sacred  Majestj^  King  James.  So  Esmond  arrived 
at  his  regiment  with  a  better  equipage  than  most  3'oung  officers 
could  afford.  He  was  older  than  most  of  his  seniors,  and  had 
a  further  advantage  which  belonged  but  to  very  few  of  the  army 
gentlemen  in  his  da}^  —  man}^  of  whom  could  do  little  more  than 
write  their  names  —  that  he  had  read  much,  both  at  home  and 
at  the  University,  was  master  of  two  or  three  languages,  and 
had  that  further  education  which  neither  books  nor  years  will 
give,  but  which  some  men  get  from  the  silent  teaching  of  ad- 
versit}^  She  is  a  great  schoolmistress,  as  man}^  a  poor  fellow 
knows,  that  hath  held  his  hand  out  to  her  ferule,  and  whimpered 
over  his  lesson  before  her  awful  chair. 


172  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 


CHAPTER  y. 

I   GO    ON   THE   VIGO    BAY   EXPEDITION,    TASTE    SALT-WATER 
AND    SMELL    POWDER. 

The  first  expedition  in  which  Mr.  Esmond  had  the  honor  to 
be  engaged,  rather  resembled  one  of  the  invasions  projected 
by  the  redoubted  Captain  Avory  or  Captain  Kidd,  than  a  war 
between  crowned  heads,  carried  on  by  generals  of  rank  and 
honor.  On  the  1st  day  of  Jul3^,  1702,  a  great  fleet,  of  a 
hundred  and  fifty  sail,  set  sail  from  Spithead,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Admiral  Shovell,  having  on  board  12,000  troops,  with 
his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Ormond  as  the  Capt. -General  of  the 
expedition.  One  of  these  12,000  heroes  having  never  been  to 
sea  before,  or,  at  least,  only  once  in  his  infanc}^  when  he  made 
the  vojage  to  England  from  that  unknown  country  where  he 
was  born  —  one  of  those  12,000  —  the  junior  ensign  of  Colonel 
Quin's  regiment  of  Fusileers  —  was  in  a  quite  unheroic  state  of 
corporal  prostration  a  few  hours  after  sailing ;  and  an  enemy, 
had  he  boarded  the  ship,  would  have  had  easy  work  of  him. 
From  Portsmouth  we  put  into  Plymouth,  and  took  in  fresh 
reinforcements.  We  were  off  Finisterre  on  the  31st  of  July, 
so  Esmond's  table-book  informs  him  :  and  on  the  8th  of  August 
made  the  rock  of  Lisbon.  By  this  time  the  Ensign  was  grown 
as  bold  as  an  admiral,  and  a  week  afterwards  had  the  fortune 
to  be  under  fire  for  the  first  time  —  and  under  water,  too,  — 
his  boat  being  swamped  in  the  surf  in  Toros  Ba}^,  where  the 
troops  landed.  The  ducking  of  his  new  coat  was  all  the  harm 
the  3'oung  soldier  got  in  this  expedition,  for,  indeed,  the  Span- 
iards made  no  stand  before  our  troops,  and  were  not  in  strength 
to  do  so. 

But  tlie  campaign,  if  not  very  glorious,  w^as  very  pleasant. 
New  sights  of  nature,  by  sea  and  land —  a  life  of  action,  begin- 
ning now  for  the  first  time  —  occupied  and  excited  the  3'oung 
man.  The  man}^  accidents,  and  the  routine  of  shipboard  — 
the  militar}"  duty  —  the  new  acquaintances,  both  of  his  comrades 
in  arms,  and  of  the  officers  of  the  fleet  —  served  to  cheer  and 
occupy  his  mind,  and  waken  it  out  of  that  selfish  depression 
into  which  his  late  unhappy  fortunes  had  plunged  him.  He 
felt  as  if  the  ocean  separated  him  from  his  past  care,  and  wel- 
comed the  new  era  of  life  which  was  dawning  for  him.    Abounds 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  173 

heal  rapid\y  in  a  heart  of  two-and-twenty ;  hopes  revive  daily ; 
and  courage  rallies  in  spite  of  a  man.  Perhaps,  as  P]smond 
thought  of  his  late  despondency  and  melancholy,  and  how 
irremediable  it  had  seemed  to  him,  as  he  lay  in  his  prison  a 
few  months  back,  he  was  almost  mortified  in  his  secret  mind  at 
finding  himself  so  cheerful. 

To  see  with  one's  own  ej'es  men  and  countries,  is  better  than 
reading  all  the  books  of  travel  in  the  world ;  and  it  was  with 
extreme  delight  and  exultation  that  the  3'oung  man  found  him- 
self actually  on  his  grand  tour,  and  in  the  view  of  people  and 
cities  which  he  had  read  about  as  a  boy.  He  beheld  war  for 
the  first  time  —  the  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  it,  at 
least,  if  not  much  of  the  danger.  He  saw  actually,  and  with 
his  own  eyes,  those  Spanish  cavaliers  and  ladies  whom  he  had 
beheld  in  imagination  in  that  immortal  story  of  Cervantes, 
which  had  been  the  dehght  of  his  youthful  leisure.  'Tis  forty 
3^ears  since  Mr.  Esmond  witnessed  those  scenes,  but  thej^  remain 
as  fresh  in  his  memory  as  on  the  day  wlien  first  he  saw  them 
as  a  young  man.  A  cloud,  as  of  grief,  that  had  lowered  over 
him,  and  had  wrapped  the  last  3'ears  of  his  life  in  gloom,  seemed 
to  clear  awa}^  from  Esmond  during  this  fortunate  voyage  and 
campaign.  His  energies  seemed  to  awaken  and  to  expand 
under  a  cheerful  sense  of  freedom.  Was  his  heart  secret!}"  glad 
to  have  escaped  from  that  fond  but  ignoble  bondage  at  home? 
Was  it  that  the  inferiorit}"  to  which  the  idea  of  his  base  birth 
had  compelled  him,  vanished  with  the  knowledge  of  that  secret, 
which  though,  perforce,  kept  to  himself,  was  3'et  enough  to 
cheer  and  console  him?  At  any  rate,  young  Esmond  of  the 
army  was  quite  a  different  being  to  the  sad  httle  dependant  of 
the  kind  Castlewood  household,  and  the  melancholy  student  of 
Trinit}"  Walks  ;  discontented  with  his  fate,  and  with  the  voca- 
tion into  which  that  drove  him,  and  thinking,  with  a  secret 
indignation,  that  the  cassock  and  bands,  and  the  very  sacred 
ofl3ce  with  which  he  had  once  proposed  to  invest  himself,  were, 
in  fact,  but  marks  of  a  servitude  which  was  to  continue  all  his 
life  long.  For,  disguise  it  as  he  might  to  himself,  he  had  all 
along  felt  that  to  be  Castlewood's  chaplain  was  to  be  Castle- 
wood's  inferior  still,  and  that  his  life  was  but  to  be  a  long, 
hopeless  servitude.  So,  indeed,  he  was  far  from  grudging  his 
old  filend  Tom  Tuslier's  good  fortune  (as  Tom,  no  doubt, 
thought  it).  Had  it  been  a  mitre  and  Lambeth  which  his 
friends  ofl*ered  him,  and  not  a  small  living  and  a  country  par- 
sonage, he  would  have  felt  as  much  a  slave  in  one  case  as  iu 
the  other,  and  was  quite  happy  and  thankful  to  be  free. 


174  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESM0:N^D. 

The  bravest  man  I  ever  knew  in  the  arm3%  and  who  had  been 
present  in  most  of  King  William's  actions,  as  well  as  in  the 
campaigns  of  the  great  Duke  of  Marlborough,  could  never  be 
got  to  tell  us  of  anj^  achievement  of  his,  except  that  once  Prince 
Eugene  ordered  him  up  a  tree  to  reconnoitre  the  enemj-,  which 
feat  he  could  not  achieve  on  account  of  the  horseman's  boots 
he  wore  ;  and  on  another  day  that  he  was  very  nearly  taken 
prisoner  because  of  these  jack-boots,  which  prevented  him  from 
running  away.  The  present  narrator  shall  imitate  this  laudable 
reserve,  and  doth  not  intend  to  dwell  upon  his  militarj^  exploits, 
which  were  in  truth  not  very  different  from  those  of  a  thousand 
other  gentlemen.  This  first  campaign  of  Mr.  Esmond's  lasted 
but  a  few  days  ;  and  as  a  score  of  books  have  been  written 
concerning  it,  it  may  be  dismissed  very  briefly  here. 

When  our  fleet  came  within  view  of  Cadiz,  our  commander 
sent  a  boat  with  a  white  flag  and  a  couple  of  officers  to  the 
Governor  of  Cadiz,  Don  Scipio  de  Brancaccio,  with  a  letter 
from  his  Grace,  in  which  he  hoped  that  as  Don  Scipio  had 
formerly  served  with  the  Austrians  against  the  French,  'twas 
to  be  hoped  that  his  Excellency  would  now  declare  himself 
against  the  French  King,  and  for  the  Austrian  in  the  war 
between  King  Philip  and  King  Charles.  But  his  Excellency, 
Don  Scipio,  prepared  a  reply,  in  which  he  announced  that, 
having  served  his  former  king  with  honor  and  fidelit}^,  he  hoped 
to  exhibit  the  same  loyalty  and  devotion  towards  his  present 
sovereign,  King  PhiUp  V.  ;  and  by  the  time  this  letter  was 
ready,  the  two  officers  had  been  taken  to  see  the  town,  and  the 
alameda,  and  the  theatre,  where  bull-fights  are  fought,  and  the 
convents,  where  the  admirable  works  of  Don  Bartholomew 
Murillo  inspired  one  of  them  with  a  great  wonder  and  delight 
—  such  as  he  had  never  felt  before  —  concerning  this  divine  art 
of  painting ;  and  these  sights  over,  and  a  handsome  refection 
and  chocolate  being  served  to  the  English  gentlemen,  they 
were  accompanied  back  to  their  shallop  with  every  courtesy, 
and  were  the  only  two  officers  of  the  English  army  that  saw  at 
that  time  that  famous  city. 

The  general  tried  the  power  of  another  proclamation  on  the 
Spaniards,  in  which  he  announced  that  we  only  came  in  the 
interest  of  Spain  and  King  Charles,  and  for  ourselves  wanted 
to  make  no  conquest  nor  settlement  in  Spain  at  all.  But  all 
this  eloquence  was  lost  upon  the  Spaniards,  it  would  seem  :  the 
Captain-General  of  Andalusia  would  no  more  listen  to  us  than 
the  Governor  of  Cadiz  ;  and  in  reply  to  his  Grace's  proclama- 
tion, the  Marquis  of  Villadarias  fired  off  another,  which  those 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  175 

who  knew  the  Spanish  thought  rather  the  best  of  the  two  ;  and 
of  this  number  was  Harry  Esmond,  whose  kind  Jesuit  in  old 
days  had  instructed  him,  and  now  had  the  honor  of  translating 
for  his  Grace  these  harmless  documents  of  war.  There  was  a 
hard  touch  for  his  Grace,  and,  indeed,  for  other  generals  in  her 
Majesty's  service,  in  the  concluding  sentence  of  the  Don : 
"  That  he  and  his  council  had  the  generous  example  of  their 
ancestors  to  follow,  who  had  never  yet  sought  their  elevation 
in  the  blood  or  in  the  flight  of  their  kings.  '  Mori  pro  patria ' 
was  his  device,  which  the  Duke  might  communicate  to  the 
Princess  who  governed  England." 

Whether,  the  troops  were  angry  at  this  repartee  or  no,  'tis 
certain  something  put  them  in  a  fury ;  for,  not  being  able  to 
get  possession  of  Cadiz,  our  people  seized  upon  Port  Saint 
Mary's  and  sacked  it,  burning  down  the  merchants'  storehouses, 
getting  drunk  with  the  famous  wines  there,  pillaging  and  rob- 
bing quiet  houses  and  convents,  murdering  and  doing  worse. 
And  the  only  blood  which  Mr.  Esmond  drew  in  this  shameful 
campaign,  was  the  knocking  down  an  English  sentinel  with  a 
half-pike,  who  was  offering  insult  to  a  poor  trembling  nun.  Is 
she  going  to  turn  out  a  beaut}'?  or  a  princess?  or  perhaps 
Esmond's  mother  that  he  had  lost  and  never  seen  ?  Alas  no, 
it  was  but  a  poor  wheezy  old  dropsical  woman,  with  a  wart 
upon  her  nose.  But  having  been  esiiiy  taught  a  part  of  the 
Roman  religion,  he  never  had  the  horror  of  it  that  some  Protes- 
tants have  shown,  and  seem  to  think  to  be  a  part  of  ours. 

After  the  pillage  and  plunder  of  St.  Mary's  and  an  assault 
upon  a  fort  or  two,  the  troops  all  took  shipping,  and  finished 
their  expedition,  at  any  rate,  more  brilliantly  than  it  had  begun. 
Hearing  that  the  French  fleet  with  a  great  treasure  was  in  Vigo 
Bay,  our  Admirals,  Rooke  and  Hopson,  pursued  the  enemy 
thither ;  the  troops  landed  and  carried  the  forts  that  protected 
the  bay,  Hopson  passing  the  boom  first  on  board  his  ship  the 
"  Torbay,"  and  the  rest  of  the  ships,  English  and  Dutch,  fol- 
lowing him.  Twenty  ships  were  burned  or  taken  in  the  Port 
of  Redondilla,  and  a  vast  deal  more  plunder  than  was  ever 
accounted  for ;  but  poor  men  before  that  expedition  were  rich 
afterwards,  and  so  often  was  it  found  and  remarked  that  the 
Vigo  officers  came  home  with  pockets  full  of  money,  that  the 
notorious  Jack  Shafto,  who  made  such  a  figure  at  the  coffee- 
houses and  gaming-tables  in  London,  and  gave  out  that  he  had 
been  a  soldier  at  Vigo,  owned,  when  he  was  about  to  be  hanged, 
that  Bagshot  Heath  had  been  his  Vigo,  and  that  he  only  spoke 
of  La  Redondilla  to  turn  away  people's  eyes  from  the  real  place 


176  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

where  the  booty  lay.  Indeed,  Hounslow  or  Vigo  —  which  mat- 
ters much  ?  The  latter  was  a  bad  business,  though  Mr.  Addison 
did  sing  its  praises  in  Latin.  That  honest  gentleman's  muse 
had  an  e^'e  to  the  main  chance ;  and  I  doubt  whether  she  saw 
much  inspiration  in  the  losing  side. 

But  though  Esmond,  for  his  part,  got  no  share  of  this  fabu- 
lous booty,  one  great  prize  which  he  had  out  of  the  campaign 
was,  that  excitement  of  action  and  change  of  scene,  which 
shook  off  a  great  deal  of  his  previous  melancholy.  He  learnt 
at  any  rate  to  bear  his  fate  cheerfully.  He  brought  back  a 
browned  face,  a  heart  resolute  enough,  and  a  little  pleasant 
store  of  knowledge  and  observation,  from  that  expedition,  wliich 
was  over  with  the  autumn,  when  the  troops  were  back  in  Eng- 
land again  ;  and  Ii^smond  giving  up  his  post  of  secretary  to 
General  Lumley,  whose  command  was  over,  and  parting  with 
that  officer  with  many  kind  expressions  of  good  will  on  the 
General's  side,  had  leave  to  go  to  London,  to  see  if  he  could 
push  his  fortunes  any  way  further,  and  found  himself  once  more 
in  his  dowager  aunt's  comfortable  quarters  at  Chelsey,  and  in 
greater  favor  than  ever  with  the  old  lady.  He  propitiated  her 
with  a  present  of  a  comb,  a  fan,  and  a  black  mantle,  such  as 
the  ladies  of  Cadiz  wear,  and  which  my  Lady  Viscountess  pro- 
nounced became  her  style  of  beauty  mightily.  And  she  was 
greatily  edified  at  hearing  of  that  story  of  his  rescue  of  the  nun, 
and  felt  very  little  doubt  but  that  her  King  James's  relic,  which 
he  had  alwa3^s  dutifully  worn  in  his  desk,  had  kept  him  out  of 
danger,  and  averted  the  shot  of  the  enemy.  My  lady  made 
feasts  for  him,  introduced  him  to  more  company,  and  pushed 
his  fortunes  with  such  enthusiasm  and  success,  that  she  got  a 
promise  of  a  company  for  him  through  the  Lad}'  Marlborough's 
interest,  who  was  graciousl}^  pleased  to  accept  of  a  diamond 
worth  a  couple  of  hundred  guineas,  which  Mr.  Esmond  was  ena- 
bled to  present  to  her  lad3^ship  through  his  aunt's  bount}',  and 
who  promised  that  she  would  take  charge  of  Esmond's  fortune. 
He  had  the  honor  to  make  his  appearance  at  the  Queen's  draw- 
ing-room occasionally,  and  to  frequent  my  Lord  Marlborough's 
levees.  That  great  man  received  the  young  one  with  very  espe- 
cial favor,  so  Esmond's  comrades  said,  and  deigned  to  say  that 
he  had  received  the  best  reports  of  Mr.  Esmond,  both  for  cour- 
age and  ability,  whereon  j^ou  may  be  sure  the  young  gentleman 
made  a  profound  bow,  and  expressed  himself  eager  to  serve 
under  the  most  distinguished  captain  in  the  world. 

Whilst  his  business  was  going  on  thus  prosperously,  Esmond 
had  his  share  of  pleasure  too,  and  made  his  appearance  along 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  177 

with  other  young  gentlemen  at  the  coffee-houses,  the  theatres, 
and  the  Mall.  He  longed  to  hear  of  his  dear  mistress  and  her 
family  :  many  a  time,  in  the  midst  of  the  gayeties  and  pleasures 
of  the  town,  his  heart  fondl}"  reverted  to  them  ;  and  often  as 
the  young  fellows  of  his  soeiet}'  were  making  merry  at  the  tav- 
ern, and  calling  toasts  (as  the  fashion  of  that  day  was)  over 
their  wine,  Esmond  thought  of  persons  — of  two  fair  women, 
whom  he  had  been  used  to  adore  almost,  and  emptied  his  glass 
with  a  sigh. 

B}^  this  time  the  elder  Viscountess  had  grown  tired  again  of 
the  3'ounger,  and  whenever  she  spoke  of  my  lord's  widow,  'twas 
in  terms  by  no  means  complimentary  towards  that  poor  lad}* : 
the  younger  woman  not  needing  her  protection  any  longer,  the 
elder  abused  her.  Most  of  the  family  quarrels  that  I  have  seen 
in  life  (saving  always  those  arising  from  money  disputes,  when 
a  division  of  twopence  halfpenny  will  often  drive  the  dearest 
relatives  into  war  and  estrangement,)  spring  out  of  jealousy 
and  envy.  Jack  and  Tom,  born  of  the  same  family  and  to  the 
same  fortune,  live  ver}^  cordially  together,  not  untilJack  is  ruined 
when  Tom  deserts  him,  but  until  Tom  makes  a  sudden  rise  in 
prosperity,  which  Jack  can't  forgive.  Ten  times  to  one  'tis  the  i 
unprosperous  man  that  is  angr}',  not  the  other  who  is  in  fault.  \ 
'Tis  Mrs.  Jack,  who  can  onl}"  afford  a  chair,  that  sickens  at 
Mrs.  Tom's  new  coach-and-sick,  cries  out  against  her  sister's 
airs,  and  sets  her  husband  against  his  brother.  'Tis  Jack  who 
sees  his  .brother  shaking  hands  with  a  lord  (with  whom  Jack 
would  like  to  exchange  snuff-boxes  himself) ,  that  goes  home  and 
tells  his  wife  how  poor  Tom  is  spoiled,  he  fears,  and  no  better 
than  a  sneak,  parasite,  and  beggar  on  horseback.  I  remember 
how  furious  the  coffee-house  wits  were  with  Dick  Steele  when  he 
set  up  his  coach  and  fine  house  in  Bloomsbur3'  •  they  began  to 
forgive  him  when  the  bailiffs  were  after  him,  and  abused  Mr. 
Addison  for  selUng  Dick's  country-house.  And  3'et  Dick  in 
the  sponging-house,  or  Dick  in  the  Park,  with  his  four  mares 
and  plated  harness,  was  exactlj^  the  same  gentle,  kindly,  im- 
provident, jovial  Dick  Steele  :  and  3'et  Mr.  Addison  was  per- 
fectly right  in  getting  the  money  which  was  his,  and  not  giving 
up  the  amount  of  his  just  claim,  to  be  spent  by  Dick  upon 
champagne  and  fiddlers,  laced  clothes,  fine  furniture,  and  para-  ; 
sites,  Jew  and  Christian,  male  and  female,  who  clung  to  hircuy 
As,  according  to  the  famous  maxim  of  Monsieur  de  Rochefou- 
cault,  "in  our  friends'  misfortunes  there's  something  secretly 
pleasant  to  us  ; "  so,  on  the  other  hand,  their  good  fortune  is 
disagreeable.    If  'tis  hard  for  a  man  to  bear  his  own  good  luck, 


178  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

'tis  harder  still  for  his  friends  to  bear  it  for  him  ;  and  but  few 
of  them  ordinarily  can  stand  that  trial :  whereas  one  of  the 
"precious  uses"  of  adversit}^  is,  that  it  is  a  great  reconciler; 
that  it  brings  back  averted  kindness,  disarms  animosity,  and 
causes  yesterday's  enemy  to  fling  his  hatred  aside,  and  hold  out 
a  hand  to  the  fallen  friend  of  old  days.  There's  pit}'  and  love, 
as  well  as  envy,  in  the  same  heart  and  towards  the  same  per- 
son. The  rivaby  stops  when  the  competitor  tumbles  ;  and,  as 
I  view  it,  we  should  look  at  these  agreeable  and  disagreeable 
qualities  of  our  humanity  humbly  alike.  They  are  consequent 
and  natural,  and  our  kindness  and  meanness  both  manl}*. 

So  you  may  either  read  the  sentence,  that  the  elder  of  Es- 
mond's two  kinswomen  pardoned  the  3^ounger  her  beaut}^,  when 
that  had  lost  somewhat  of  its  freshness,  perhaps  ;  and  forgot  most 
her  grievances  against  the  other,  when  the  subject  of  them  was 
no  longer  prosperous  and  enviable ;  or  we  ma}-  say  more  benev- 
olentl}^  (but  the  sum  comes  to  the  same  figures,  worked  either 
way,)  that  Isabella  repented  of  her  unkindness  towards  Rachel, 
when  Rachel  was  unhappj' ;  and,  bestirring  herself  in  behalf  of 
the  poor  widow  and  her  children,  gave  them  shelter  and  friend- 
ship. The  ladies  were  quite  good  friends  as  long  as  the  weaker 
one  needed  a  protector.  Before  Esmond  went  away  on  his  first 
campaign,  his  mistress  was  still  on  terms  of  friendship  (though 
a  poor  little  chit,  a  woman  that  had  evidently  no  spirit  in  her, 
&c.)  with  the  elder  Lady  Castlewood ;  and  Mistress  Beatrix 
was  allowed  to  be  a  beauty. 

But  between  the  first  3'ear  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  the 
second,  sad  changes  for  the  worse  had  taken  place  in  the  two 
younger  ladies,  at  least  in  the  elder's  description  of  them. 
Rachel,  Viscountess  Castlewood,  had  no  more  face  than  a 
dumpling,  and  Mrs.  Beatrix  was  grown  quite  coarse,  and  was 
losing  all  her  beauty.  Little  Lord  Blandford  —  (she  never 
would  call  hira  Lord  Blandford  ;  his  father  was  Loi'd  Churchill 
—  the  King,  whom  he  betrayed,  had  made  him  Lord  Churchill, 
and  he  was  Lord  Churchill  still)  —  might  be  making  eyes  at  her  ; 
but  his  mother,  that  vixen  of  a  Sarah  Jennings,  would  never 
liear  of  such  a  folly.  Lady  Marlborough  had  got  her  to  be  a 
maid  of  honor  at  Court  to  the  Princess,  but  she  would  repent  of 
it.  The  widow  Francis  (she  was  but  Mrs.  Francis  Esmond) 
was  a  scheming,  artful,  heartless  hussy.  She  was  spoihng 
her  brat  of  a  boy,  and  she  would  end  by  marrying  her  chap- 
lain. 

"What,  Tusher !  "  cried  Mr.  Esmond,  feeling  a  strange 
pang  of  rage  and  astonishment. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  179 

*' Yes  —  Tusher,  my  maid's  son;  and  who  has  got  all  the 
qualities  of  his  father  the  lackey  in  black,  and  his  accomplished 
mamma  the  waiting- woman,"  cries  my  lad3\  ''What  do  you 
suppose  that  a  sentimental  widow,  who  will  live  down  in  that 
dingy  dungeon  of  a  Castlewood,  where  she  spoils  her  boy,  kills 
the  poor  with  her  drugs,  has  pra3^ers  twice  a  day  and  sees  no- 
body but  the  chaplain  —  what  do  3'ou  suppose  she  can  do,  mon 
Cousin,  but  let  the  horrid  parson,  with  his  great  square  toes  and 
hideous  Uttle  green  eyes,  make  love  to  her?  Cela  c'estvu,  mon 
Cousin.  When  I  was  a  girl  at  Castlewood,  all  the  chaplains 
fell  in  love  with  me  —  they've  nothing  else  to  do." 

My  lad}^  went  on  with  more  talk  of  this  kind,  though,  in 
truth,  Esmond  had  no  idea  of  what  she  said  further,  so  entirely 
did  her  first  words  occupy  his  thought.  Were  they  true  ?  Not 
all,  nor  half,  nor  a  tenth  part  of  what  the  garrulous  old  woman 
said,  was  true.  Could  this  be  so?  No  ear  had  Esmond  for 
anything  else,  though  his  patroness  chatted  on  for  an  hour. 

Some  3'oung  gentlemen  of  the  town,  with  whom  Esmond  had 
made  acquaintance,  had  promised  to  present  him  to  that  most 
charming  of  actresses,  and  livel}^  and  agreeable  of  women,  Mrs. 
Bracegirdle,  about  whom  Harry's  old  adversar}'  Mohun  had 
drawn  .swords,  a  few  years  before  mj'  poor  lord  and  he  fell  out. 
The  famous  Mr.  Congreve  had  stamped  with  his  high  approval, 
to  the  wliich  there  was  no  gainsaying,  this  delightful  person : 
and  she  was  acting  iu  Dick  Steele's  comedies,  and  finall}',  and 
for  twent3'-four  hours  after  beholding  her,  Mr.  Esmond  felt 
himself,  or  thought  himself,  to  be  as  violently  enamored  of  this 
lovel3'  brunette,  as  were  a  thousand  other  3'ouug  fellows  about 
the  city.  To  have  once  seen  her  was  to  long  to  behold  her 
again  ;  and  to  be  offered  the  delightful  privilege  of  her  acquaint- 
ance, was  a  pleasure  the  very  idea  of  whicli  set  the  young  lieu- 
tenant's heart  on  fire.  A  man  cannot  live  with  comrades  under 
the  tents  without  finding  out  that  he  too  is  five-and-twent3' .  A 
3'oung  fellow  cannot  be  cast  down  b3'  grief  and  misfortune  ever 
so  severe  but  some  night  he  begins  to  sleep  sound,  and  some 
day  when  dinner-time  comes  to  feel  hungr3'  for  a  beefsteak. 
Time,  youth  and  good  health,  new  scenes  and  the  excitement  of 
action  and  a  campaign,  had  pretty  well  brought  Esmond's  mourn- 
ing to  an  end  ;  and  his  comrades  said  that  Don  Dismal,  as  the3^ 
called  him,  was  Don  Dismal  no  more.  So  when  a  part3^  was 
made  to  dine  at  the  "  Rose,"  and  go  to  the  playhouse  afterward, 
Esmond  was  as  pleased  as  another  to  take  his  share  of  the  bottle 
and  the  lAsiy. 

How  was  it  that  the  old  aunt's  news,  or  it  might  be  scandal. 


180  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

about  Tom  Tusher,  caused  such  a  strange  and  sudden  excite- 
ment in  Tom's  old  pla3'fellow?  Hadn't  he  sworn  a  thousand 
times  in  his  own  mind  that  the  Lad}^  of  Castlewood,  who  had 
treated  him  with  such  kindness  once,  and  then  had  left  him  so 
cruelly,  was,  and  was  to  remain  henceforth,  indifferent  to  him 
for  ever?  Had  his  pride  and  his  sense  of  justice  not  long  since 
helped  him  to  cure  the  pain  of  that  desertion  —  was  it  even  a 
pain  to  him  now?  Why,  but  last  night  as  he  walked  across  the 
fields  and  meadows  to  Chelsej^  from  Pall  Mall,  had  he  not  com- 
posed two  or  three  stanzas  of  a  song,  celebrating  Bracegirdle's 
brown  e^^es,  and  declaring  them  a  thousand  times  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  brightest  blue  ones  that  ever  languished  under  the 
lashes  of  an  insipid  fair  beauty !  But  Tom  Tusher !  Tom 
Tusher,  the  waiting-woman's  son,  raising  up  his  little  eyes  to  his 
mistress !  Tom  Tusher  presuming  to  think  of  Castlewood's 
widow !  Rage  and  contempt  filled  Mr.  Harr3"'s  heart  at  the 
very  notion  ;  the  honor  of  the  family,  of  which  he  was  the  chief, 
made  it  his  dut}^  to  prevent  so  monstrous  an  alliance,  and  to 
chastise  the  upstart  who  could  dare  to  think  of  such  an  insult  to 
their  house.  'Tis  true  Mr.  Esmond  often  boasted  of  repubhcan 
principles,  and  could  remember  many  fine  speeches  he  bad  made 
at  college  and  elsewhere,  with  worth  and  not  birth  for  a  text : 
but  Tom  Tusher  to  take  the  place  of  the  noble  Castlewood  — 
faugh !  'twas  as  monstrous  as  King  Hamlet's  widow  taking  off 
her  weeds  for  Claudius.  Esmond  laughed  at  all  widows,  all 
wives,  all  women ;  and  were  the  banns  about  to  be  published, 
as  no  doubt  the}^  were,  that  very  next  Sunday  at  Walcote 
Church,  Esmond  swore  that  he  would  be  present  to  shout  No ! 
in  the  face  of  the  congregation,  and  to  take  a  private  revenge 
upon  the  ears  of  the  bridegroom. 

Instead  of  going  to  dinner  then  at  the  "  Rose"  that  night, 
Mr.  Esmond  bade  his  servant  pack  a  portmanteau  and  get 
horses,  and  was  at  Farnham,  half-way  on  the  road  to  Walcote, 
thirt}'  miles  off,  before  his  comrades  had  got  to  their  supper 
after  the  pla}'.  He  bade  his  man  give  no  hint  to  my  Lad}^ 
Dowager's  household  of  the  expedition  on  which  he  was  going ; 
and  as  Chelsey  was  distant  from  London,  the  roads  bad,  and 
infested  by  footpads,  and  Esmond  often  in  the  habit,  when  en- 
gaged in  a  party  of  pleasure,  of  lying  at  a  friend's  lodging  in 
town,  there  was  no  need  that  his  old  aunt  should  be  disturbed  at 
his  absence —  indeed,  nothing  more  delighted  the  old  lady  than 
to  fanc}^  that  mon  Cousin^  the  incorrigible  3'oung  sinner,  was 
abroad  boxing  the  watch,  or  scouring  St.  Giles's.  When  she 
was  not  at  her  books  of  devotion,  she  thought  Etheridge  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  181 

Sedley  very  good  reading.  She  had  a  hundred  pretty  stories 
about  Rochester,  Harry  Jermyn,  and  Hamilton  ;  and  if  Esmond 
would  but  have  run  away  with  the  wife  even  of  a  citizen,  'tis 
my  belief  she  would  have  pawned  her  diamonds  (the  best  of 
them  went  to  our  Lady  of  Chaillot)  to  pay  his  damages. 

My  lord's  little  house  of  Walcote  —  which  he  inhabited  be- 
fore he  took  his  title  and  occupied  the  house  of  Castlewood  — 
lies  about  a  mile  from  Winchester,  and  his  widow  had  returned 
to  Walcote  after  my  lord's  death  as  a  place  alwa^'s  dear  to  her, 
and  where  her  earliest  and  happiest  days  had  been  spent,  cheer- 
fuller  than  Castlewood,  which  was  too  large  for  her  straitened 
means,  and  giving  her,  too,  the  protection  of  the  ex-dean,  her 
father.  The  young  Viscount  had  a  year's  schooling  at  the 
famous  college  there,  with  Mr.  Tusher  as  his  governor.  So 
much  news  of  them  Mr.  Esmond  had  had  during  the  past  3'ear 
from  the  old  Viscountess,  his  ow^n  father's  widow ;  from  the 
young  one  there  had  never  been  a  word. 

Twice  or  thrice  in  his  benefactor's  lifetime,  Esmond  had  been 
to  Walcote ;  and  now,  taking  but  a  couple  of  hours'  rest  onl}' 
at  the  inn  on  the  road,  he  was  up  again  long  before  daybreak, 
and  made  such  good  speed  that  he  was  at  Walcote  b}'  two 
o'clock  of  the  da3\  He  rid  to  the  end  of  the  village,  where  he 
alighted  and  sent  a  man  thence  to  Mr.  Tusher,  with  a  message 
that  a  gentleman  from  London  would  speak  with  him  on  urgent 
business.  The  messenger  came  back  to  say  the  Doctor  was  in 
town,  most  likely  at  prayers  in  the  Cathedi'al.  My  Lad\^  Vis- 
countess was  there,  too  ;  she  always  went  to  Cathedral  pra^^ers 
every  day. 

The  horses  belonged  to  the  post-house  at  Winchester.  Es- 
mond mounted  again  and  rode  on  to  the  "  George  ;  "  whence  he 
walked,  leaving  his  grumbling  domestic  at  last  happ}-  with  a 
dinner,  straight  to  the  Cathedral.  The  organ  was  playing  :  the 
winter's  day  was  already  growing  gray  :  as  he  passed  under  the 
street-arch  into  the  Cathedral  yard,  and  made  his  way  into 
the  ancient  solemn  edifice. 


182  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    29th   DECEMBER. 

There  was  scarce  a  score  of  persons  in  the  Cathedral  beside 
the  Dean  and  some  of  his  clergy,  and  the  choristers,  young  and 
old,  that  performed  the  beautiful  evening  prayer.  But  Mr. 
Tusher  was  one  of  the  officiants,  and  read  from  the  eagle  in  an 
authoritative  voice,  and  a  great  black  periwig  ;  and  in  the  stalls, 
still  in  her  black  widow's  hood,  sat  Esmond's  dear  mistress,  her 
son  by  her  side,  very  much  grown,  and  indeed  a  noble-looking 
youth,  with  his  mother's  eyes,  and  his  father's  curling  brown 
hair,  that  fell  over  his  poiiit  de  Venise  —  a  prett}^  picture  such 
as  Van  Dyck  might  have  painted.  Mons.  Rigaud's  portrait  of 
my  Lord  Viscount,  done  at  Paris  afterwards,  gives  but  a  French 
version  of  his  manl}-,  frank,  English  face.  When  he  looked  up 
there  were  two  sapphire  beams  out  of  his  eyes  such  as  no 
painter's  palette  has  the  color  to  match,  I  think.  On  this  day 
there  was  not  much  chance  of  seeing  that  particular  beauty  of 
my  young  lord's  countenance  ;  for  the  truth  is,  he  kept  his  e3^es 
shut  for  the  most  part,  and,  the  anthem  being  rather  long,  was 
asleep. 

But  the  music  ceasing,  my  lord  woke  up,  looking  about  him, 
and  his  eyes  lighting  on  Mr.  Esmond,  who  was  sitting  opposite 
him,  gazing  with  no  small  tenderness  and  melancholy  upon  two 
persons  who  had  so  much  of  his  heart  for  so  man}-  years,  Lord 
Castlewood,  with  a  start,  pulled  at  his  mother's  sleeve  (her 
face  had  scarce  been  lifted  from  her  book),  and  said,  ''Look, 
mother ! "  so  loud,  that  Esmond  could  hear  on  the  other  side 
of  the  church,  and  the  old  Dean  on  his  throned  stall.  Lady 
Castlewood  looked  for  an  instant  as  her  son  bade  her,  and  held 
up  a  warning  finger  to  Frank ;  Esmond  felt  his  whole  face 
flush,  and  his  heart  throbbing,  as  that  dear  lady  beheld  him 
once  more.  The  rest  of  the  prayers  were  speedily  over ;  Mr. 
Esmond  did  not  hear  them ;  nor  did  his  mistress,  verj^  likel}', 
whose  hood  went  more  closely  over  her  face,  and  who  never 
lifted  her  head  again  until  the  service  was  over,  the  blessing 
given,  and  Mr.  Dean,  and  his  procession  of  ecclesiastics,  out 
of  the  inner  chapel. 

Young  Castlewood  came  clambering  over  the  stalls  before 
the  clergy  were  fairly  gone,  and  running  up  to  Esmond,  eagerly 


THE   HISTORY   OF   HENRY   ESMOND.  183 

embraced  him.  "  My  dear,  dearest  old  Harry  !  "  he  said,  "  are 
you  come  back  ?  Have  you  been  to  the  wars  ?  You'll  take  me 
with  you  when  you  go  again?  Why  didn't  you  write  to  us? 
Come  to  mother." 

Mr.  Esmond  could  hardly  say  more  than  a  "  God  bless  j^ou, 
my  boy,"  for  his  heart  was  very  full  and  grateful  at  all  this 
tenderness  on  the  lad's  part ;  and  he  was  as  much  moved  at 
seeing  Frank  as  he  was  fearful  about  that  other  interview  which 
was  now  to  take  place  :  for  he  knew  not  if  the  widow  would 
reject  him  as  she  had  done  so  cruelly  a  year  ago. 

"It  was  kind  of  3'ou  to  come  back  to  us,  Henry,"  Lady 
Esmond  said.     "  I  thought  you  might  come." 

"  We  read  of  the  fleet  coming  to  Portsmouth.  Why  did  you 
not  come  from  Portsmouth  ?  "  F'rank  asked,  or  my  Lord  Vis- 
count, as  he  now  must  be  called. 

Esmond  had  thought  of  that  too.  He  would  have  given  one  of 
his  eyes  so  that  he  might  see  his  dear  friends  again  once  more ; 
but  believing  that  his  mistress  had  forbidden  him  her  house,  he 
had  obe3'ed  her,  and  remained  at  a  distance. 

"  Y'^ou  had  but  to  ask,  and  you  know  I  would  be  here,"  he 
said. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  her  little  fair  hand ;  there  was  only 
her  marriage  ring  on  it.  The  quarrel  was  all  over.  The  year  of 
grief  and  estrangement  was  passed.  The}^  never  had  been  sepa- 
rated. His  mistress  had  never  been  out  of  his  mind  all  that  time. 
No,  not  once.  No,  not  in  the  prison  ;  nor  in  the  camp  ;  nor  on 
shore  before  the  enemy ;  nor  at  sea  under  the  stars  of  solemn 
midnight ;  nor  as  he  watched  the  glorious  rising  of  the  dawn : 
not  even  at  the  table,  where  he  sat  carousing  with  friends,  or  at 
the  theatre  yonder,  where  he  tried  to  fancy  that  other  e^'es  were 
brighter  than  hers.  Brighter  eyes  there  might  be,  and  faces 
more  beautiful,  but  none  so  dear  —  no  voice  so  sweet  as  that  of 
his  beloved  mistress,  who  had  been  sister,  mother,  goddess  to 
him  during  his  youth  —  goddess  now  no  more,  for  he  knew  of 
her  weaknesses  ;  and  by  thought,  by  suffering,  and  that  experi- 
ence it  brings,  was  older  now  than  she ;  but  more  fondly 
cherished  as  woman  perhaps  than  ever  she  had  been  adored  as 
divinity.  What  is  it?  Where  lies  it?  the  secret  which  makes 
one  little  hand  the  dearest  of  all?  Wlioever  can  unriddle  that 
m3'ster3'?  Here  she  was,  her  son  b3'  his  side,  his  dear  boy. 
Here  she  was,  weeping  and  happ3\  She  took  his  hand  in  both 
hers  ;  he  felt  her  tears.     It  was  a  rapture  of  reconciliation. 

"  Here  comes  Squaretoes,"  says  Frank.     "•  Here's  Tusher." 

Tushcr,  indeed,  now  appeared,  creaking  on  his  great  heels. 


184  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

Mr.  Tom  had  divested  himself  of  his  alb  or  surplice,  and  came 
forward  habited  in  his  cassock  and  great  black  periwig.  How 
had  Esmond  ever  been  for  a  moment  jealous  of  this  fellow? 

"Give  us  thy  hand,  Tom  Tusher,"  he  said.  The  chaplain 
made  him  a  ver3'  low  and  statel}-  bow.  "  1  am  charmed  to  see 
Captain  Esmond,"  says  he.  "  My  lord  and  I  have  read  the 
Reddas  incolumem  precor^  and  applied  it,  I  am  sure,  to  you. 
You  come  back  with  Gaditanian  laurels ;  when  I  heard  you 
were  bound  thither,  I  wished,  I  am  sure,  I  was  another  Sep- 
timius.  My  Lord  Viscount,  your  lordship  remembers  Septimi^ 
Gades  aditure  mecum  ?" 

"  There's  an  angle  of  earth  that  I  love  better  than  Gades, 
Tusher,"  saj's  Mr.  Esmond.  " 'Tis  that  one  where  your  rev- 
erence hath  a  parsonage,  and  where  our  youth  was  brought 
up." 

"  A  house  that  has  so  many  sacred  recollections  to  me,"  says 
Mr.  Tusher  (and  Harry  remembered  how  Tom's  father  used 
to  flog  him  there)  —  "a  house  near  to  that  of  my  respected 
patron,  my  most  honored  patroness,  must  ever  be  a  dear  abode 
to  me.  But,  madam,  the  verger  waits  to  close  the  gates  on 
your  ladyship." 

"  And  Harry's  coming  home  to  supper.  Huzzay  !  huzzay  !  " 
cries  my  lord.  "  Mother,  I  shall  run  home  and  bid  Beatrix  put 
her  ribbons  on.  Beatrix  is  a  maid  of  honor,  Plarry.  Such  a 
fine  set-up  minx  !  " 

"Your  heart  was  never  in  the  Church,  Harry,"  the  widow 
said,  in  her  sweet  low  tone,  as  they  walked  away  together. 
(Now,  it  seemed  they  never  had  been  parted,  and  again,  as  if 
they  had  been  ages  asunder.)  "  I  always  thought  you  had  no 
vocation  that  way  ;  and  that  'twas  a  pity  to  shut  3'ou  out  from  the 
world.  You  would  but  have  pined  and  chafed  at  Castlewood  : 
and  'tis  better  you  should  make  a  name  for  yourself.  I  often 
said  so  to  my  dear  lord.  How  he  loved  you  !  'Twas  my  lord 
that  made  3'ou  stay  with  us." 

"  I  asked  no  better  than  to  stay  near  you  always,"  said  Mr. 
Esmond. 

"  But  to  go  was  best,  Harry.  "When  the  world  cannot  give 
peace,  you  will  know  where  to  find  it ;  but  one  of  your  strong 
imagination  and  eager  desires  must  try  the  world  first  before  he 
tires  of  it.  'Twas  not  to  be  thought  of,  or  if  it  once  was,  it 
was  only  b}^  my  selfishness,  that  you  should  remain  as  chaplain 
to  a  countr}^  gentleman  and  tutor  to  a  little  bo}^  You  are  of 
the  blood  of  the  Esmonds,  kinsman  ;  and  that  was  always  wild 
in  youth.     Look  at  Francis.     He  is  but  fifteen,  and  I  scarce 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  185 

can  keep  him  in  mj  nest.  His  talk  is  all  of  war  and  pleasure, 
and  he  longs  to  serve  in  the  next  campaign.  Perhaps  he  and 
the  young  Lord  Churchill  shall  go  the  next.  Lord  Marlborough 
has  been  good  to  us.  You  know  how  kind  they  were  in  my 
misfortune.  And  so  was  3'our  —  your  father's  widow.  No  one 
knows  how  good  the  world  is,  till  grief  comes  to  try  us.  'Tis 
through  m}^  Lad}^  Marlborough's  goodness  that  Beatrix  hath  her 
place  at  Court ;  and  Frank  is  under  my  Lord  Chamberlain. 
And  the  dowager  ladj',  your  father's  widow,  has  promised  to 
provide  for  you  —  has  she  not  ?  " 

Esmond  said,  "Yes.  As  far  as  present  favor  went,  Lady 
Castlewood  was  very  good  to  him.  And  should  her  mind 
change,"  he  added  gayly,  ''  as  ladies'  minds  will,  I  am  strong 
enough  to  bear  my  own  burden,  and  make  my  way  somehow. 
Not  by  the  sword  very  likely.  Thousands  have  a  better  genius 
for  that  than  I,  but  there  are  many  ways  in  which  a  young  man 
of  good  parts  and  education  can  get  on  in  the  world  ;  and  I  am 
pretty  sure,  one  way  or  other,  of  promotion  ! "  Indeed,  he 
had  found  patrons  already  in  the  army,  and  amongst  persons 
very  able  to  serve  him,  too ;  and  told  his  mistress  of  the  flat- 
tering aspect  of  fortune.  They  walked  as  though  they  had 
never  been  parted,  slowly,  with  the  gray  twilight  closing  round 
them. 

''And  now  we  are  drawing  near  to  home,"  she  continued, 
"  I  knew  3'ou  would  come,  Harry,  if — if  it  was  but  to  forgive 
me  for  having  spoken  unjustly  to  3'ou  after  that  horrid  —  horrid 
misfortune.  I  was  half  frantic  with  grief  then  when  I  saw  you. 
And  I  know  now  —  they  have  told  me.  That  wretch,  whose 
name  I  can  never  mention,  even  has  said  it:  how  you  tried  to 
avert  the  quarrel,  and  would  have  taken  it  on  yourself,  my  poor 
child :  but  it  was  God's  will  that  I  should  be  punished,  and 
that  my  dear  lord  should  fall." 

"  He  gave  me  his  blessing  on  his  death-bed,"  Esmond  said. 
"  Thank  God  for  that  legacy  !  " 

"Amen,  amen!  dear  Henry,"  said  the  lady,  pressing  his 
arm.  "  I  knew  it.  Mr.  Atterbury,  of  St.  Bride's,  who  was 
called  to  him,  told  me  so.  And  I  thanked  God,  too,  and  in  my 
pra3'ers  ever  since  remembered  it." 

"  You  had  spared  me  man^^  a  bitter  night,  had  you  told  me 
sooner,"  Mr.  Esmond  said. 

"I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  such 
sweet  humility,  as  made  Esmond  repent  that  he  should  ever 
have  dared  to  reproach  her.  "I  know  how  wicked  m}^  heart 
has  been ;  and  I  have  suffered  too,  my  dear.     I  confessed  to 


186  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

Mr.  Atterbury  —  I  must  not  tell  any  more.  He  —  I  said  I 
would  not  write  to  jou  or  go  to  you  —  a-nd  it  was  better  even 
that  having  parted,  we  should  part.  But  I  knew  you  would 
come  back  —  I  own  that.  That  is  no  one's  fault.  And  to-day, 
Henry,  in  the  anthem,  when  they  sang  it,  '  When  the  Lord 
turned  the  caj^tivity  of  Zion,  we  were  like  them  that  dream,'  I 
thought,  yes,  like  them  that  dream  —  them  that  dream.  And 
then  it  went,  '  They  that  sow  in  tears  shall  reap  in  joy  ;  and  he 
that  goeth  forth  and  weepeth,  shall  doubtless  come  again  with 
rejoicing,  bringing  his  sheaves  with  him  ; '  I  looked  up  from  the 
book,  and  saw  3'ou.  I  was  not  surprised  when  I  saw  you.  I 
knew  you  would  come,  my  dear,  and  saw  the  gold  sunshine 
round  3'our  head." 

She  smiled  an  almost  wild  smile  as  she  looked  up  at  him. 
The  moon  was  up  by  this  time,  glittering  keen  in  the  frosty 
sk3-.  He  could  see,  for  the  first  time  now  clearly,  her  sweet 
careworn  face. 

"  Do  you  know  what  day  it  is? "  she  continued.  "  It  is  the 
29th  of  December  —  it  is  3'our  birthday  !  But  last  year  we  did 
not  drink  it  —  no,  no.  M}"  lord  was  cold,  and  my  Harrj'  was 
likely  to  die  :  and  my  brain  was  in  a  fever ;  and  we  had  no 
wine.  But  now  —  now  you  are  come  again,  bringing  your 
sheaves  with  3'ou,  m3^  dear."  She  burst  into  a  wild  flood  of 
weeping  as  she  spoke  ;  she  laughed  and  sobbed  on  the  3'oung 
man's  heart,  crying  out  wildl3',  "bringing  your  sheaves  with 
3'Ou  —  3'our  sheaves  with  3'ou  !  " 

As  he  had  sometimes  felt,  gazing  up  from  the  deck  at  mid- 
night into  the  boundless  starlit  depths  overhead,  in  a  rapture  of 
devout  wonder  at  that  endless  brightness  and  beaut3'  —  in  some 
such  a  wa3'  now,  the  depth  of  this  pure  devotion  (which  was, 
for  the  first  time,  revealed  to  him)  quite  smote  upon  him,  and 
filled  his  heart  with  thanksgiving.  Gracious  God,  who  was  he, 
weak  and  friendless  creature,  that  such  a  love  should  be  poured 
out  upon  him  ?  Not  in  vain  —  not  in  vain  has  he  lived  —  hard 
and  thankless  should  he  be  to  think  so  —  that  has  such  a  treas- 
ure given  him.  What  is  ambition  compared  to  that,  but  selfish 
vanit3^?  To  be  rich,  to  be  famous?  What  do  these  profit  a 
3'ear  hence,  when  other  names  sound  louder  than  yours,  when 
3^ou  lie  hidden  away  under  the  ground,  along  with  idle  titles 
engraven  on  your  cofl3n  ?  But  onl3'  true  love  lives  after  you  — 
follows  your  memor3'  with  secret  blessing  —  or  precedes  3^ou, 
and  intercedes  for  3'OU.  Non  omnis  moriar  —  if  d3'ing,  I  3^et 
live  in  a  tender  heart  or  two  ;  nor  am  lost  and  hopeless  living, 
if  a  sainted  departed  soul  still  loves  and  pra3's  for  me. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  187 

"  If —  if  'tis  so,  dear  lad}^"  Mr.  Esmond  said,  "  whj^  should 
I  ever  leave  you  ?  If  God  hath  given  me  this  great  boon  —  and 
near  or  far  from  me,  as  I  know  now,  the  heart  of  m}'  dearest 
mistress  follows  me,  let  me  have  that  blessing  near  me,  nor 
ever  part  with  it  till  death  separate  us.  Coine  away  —  leave 
this  Europe,  this  place  which  has  so  many  sad  recollections  for 
you.  Begin  a  new  life  in  a  new  world.  My  good  lord  often 
talked  of  visiting  that  land  in  Virginia  which  King  Charles  gave 
us  —  gave  his  ancestor.  Frank  will  give  us  that.  No  man 
there  will  ask  if  there  is  a  blot  on  my  name,  or  inquire  in  the 
woods  what  my  title  is." 

"  And  my  children  —  and  my  duty  —  and  mj  good  father, 
Henry?  "  she  broke  out.  "  He  has  none  but  me  now  !  for  soon 
my  sister  will  leave  him,  and  the  old  man  will  be  alone.  He 
has  conformed  since  the  new  Queen's  reign ;  and  here  in  Win- 
chester, where  they  love  him,  they  have  found  a  church  for 
him.  When  the  children  leave  me,  I  will  stay  with  him.  I 
cannot  follow  them  into  the  great  world,  where  their  way  lies  — 
it  scares  me.  They  will  come  and  visit  me ;  and  you  will, 
sometimes,  Henrj' — yes,  sometimes,  as  now,  in  the  Holy 
Advent  season,  when  I  have  seen  and  blessed  3'ou  once  more." 

''  I  would  leave  all  to  follow  you,"  said  Mr.  Esmond  ;  "  and 
can  you  not  be  as  generous  for  me,  dear  lady?  " 

"  Hush,  boy ! "  she  said,  and  it  was  with  a  mother's  sweet 
plaintive  tone  and  look  that  she  spoke.  "  The  world  is  begin- 
ning for  you.  For  me,  I  have  been  so  weak  and  sinful  that  I 
must  leave  it,  and  pray  out  an  expiation,  dear  Henry.  Had 
we  houses  of  religion  as  there  were  once,  and  man}^  divines  of 
our  Church  would  have  them  again,  I  often  think  I  would  retire 
to  one  and  pass  my  life  in  penance.  But  I  would  love  you 
still  —  3'es,  there  is  no  sin  in  such  a  love  as  mine  now;  and 
my  dear  lord  in  heaven  may  see  m}^  heart ;  and  knows  the  tears 
that  have  washed  m}'  sin  away  —  and  now  —  now  my  dut}'  is 
here,  by  my  children  whilst  they  need  me,  and  by  my  poor  old 
father,  and  —  " 

"  And  not  by  me?  "  Henr}^  said. 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said  again,  and  raised  her  hand  up  to  his  lip. 
^'  I  have  been  your  nurse.  You  could  not  see  me,  Harry, 
when  3'ou  were  in  the  small-pox,  and  I  came  and  sat  by  you. 
Ah !  I  prayed  that  I  might  die,  but  it  would  have  been  in  sin, 
Henry.  Oh,  it  is  horrid  to  look  back  to  that  time.  It  is  over 
now  and  past,  and  it  has  been  forgiven  me.  When  3^ou  need 
me  again,  I  will  come  ever  so  far.  When  your  heart  is 
wounded,  then  come  to  me,  my  dear.     Be  silent !  let  me  say 


188  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

all.  You  never  loved  me,  dear  Henry  —  no,  you  do  not  now, 
and  I  thank  heaven  for  it.  I  used  to  watch  you,  and  knew  by 
a  thousand  signs  that  it  was  so.  Do  you  remember  how  glad 
you  were  to  go  away  to  college  ?  'Twas  I  sent  you.  I  told  my 
papa  that,  and  Mr.  Atterbury  too,  when  I  spoke  to  him  in 
London.  And  they  both  gave  me  absolution — both  —  and 
they  are  godly  men,  having  authority  to  bind  and  to  loose. 
And  they  forgave  me,  as  my  dear  lord  forgave  me  before  he 
went  to  heaven." 

"I  think  the  angels  are  not  all  in  heaven,"  Mr.  Esmond 
said.  And  as  a  brother  folds  a  sister  to  his  heart ;  and  as  a 
mother  cleaves  to  her  son's  breast  —  so  for  a  few  moments 
Esmond's  beloved  mistress  came  to  him  and  blessed  him. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I   AM   MADE    WELCOME    AT   WALCOTE. 

As  they  came  up  to  the  house  at  Walcote,  the  windows  from 
within  were  lighted  up  with  friendly  welcome  ;  the  supper-table 
was  spread  in  the  oak-parlor ;  it  seemed  as  if  forgiveness  and 
love  were  awaiting  the  returning  prodigal.  Two  or  three 
familiar  faces  of  domestics  were  on  the  look-out  at  the  porch  — ■ 
the  old  housekeeper  was  there,  and  young  Lockwood  from 
Castlewood  in  my  lord's  livery  of  tawny  and  blue.  His  dear 
mistress  pressed  his  arm  as  they  passed  into  the  hall.  Her 
ej'Cs  beamed  out  on  him  with  affection  indescribable.  "  Wel- 
come," was  all  she  said,  as  she  looked  up,  putting  back  her  fair 
curls  and  black  hood.  A  sweet  ros}'  smile  blushed  on  her 
face  ;  Harry  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  charming. 
Her  face  was  lighted  with  a  joy  that  was  brighter  than  beauty  — 
she  took  a  hand  of  her  son  who  was  in  the  hall  waiting  his 
mother  —  she  did  not  quit  Esmond's  arm. 

"Welcome,  Harr}^ "  my  30ung  lord  echoed  after  her. 
"  Here,  we  are  all  come  to  sa}^  so.  Here's  okl  Pincot,  hasn't 
she  grown  handsome  ? "  and  Pincot,  who  was  older,  and  no 
handsomer  than  usual,  made  a  curtsy  to  the  Captain,  as  she 
called  Esmond,  and  told  my  lord  to  "  Have  done,  now." 

"  And  here's  Jack  Lockwood.  He'll  make  a  famous  grena- 
dier, Jack ;  and  so  shall  I ;  we'll  both  'list  under  3  ou,  Cousin. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  189 

As  soon  as  I'm  seventeen,  I  go  to  the  army  —  every  gentleman 
goes  to  the  arm}'.  Look  !  who  comes  here  —  ho,  ho  !  "  he  burst 
into  a  laugh.  " 'Tis  Mistress  Trix,  with  a  new  ribbon;  I 
knew  she  would  put  one  on  as  soon  as  she  heard  a  captain  was 
coming  to  supper." 

This  laughing  colloquy  took  place  in  the  hall  of  Walcote 
House  :  in  the  midst  of  which  is  a  staircase  that  leads  from  an 
open  gallery,  where  are  the  doors  of  the  sleeping  chambers  :  and 
from  one  of  these,  a  wax  candle  in  her  hand,  and  illuminating 
her,  came  Mistress  Beatrix —  the  light  falling  indeed  upon  the 
scarlet  ribbon  which  she  wore,  and  upon  the  most  brilUant 
white  neck  in  the  world. 

Esmond  had  left  a  child  and  found  a  woman,  grown  bej^ond 
the  common  height ;  and  arrived  at  such  a  dazzling  complete- 
ness of  beauty,  that  his  eyes  might  well  show  surprise  and 
delight  at  beholding  her.  In  hers  there  was  a  brightness  so 
lustrous  and  melting,  that  I  have  seen  a  whole  assemblj^  follow 
her  as  if  b}'  an  attraction  irresistible  :  and  that  night  the  great 
Duke  was  at  the  playhouse  after  Ramillies,  every  soul  turned 
and  looked  (she  chanced  to  enter  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
theatre  at  the  same  moment)  at  her,  and  not  at  him.  She  was 
a  brown  beaut}" :  that  is,  her  eyes,  hair,  and  e3'ebrows  and  eye- 
lashes were  dark :  her  hair  curling  with  rich  undulations,  and 
waving  over  her  shoulders  ;  but  her  complexion  was  as  dazzling 
white  as  snow  in  sunshine ;  except  her  cheeks,  which  were  a 
bright  red,  and  her  hps,  which  were  of  a  still  deeper  crimson. 
Her  mouth  and  chin,  the}^  said,  were  too  large  and  full,  and  so 
they  might  be  for  a  goddess  in  marble,  but  not  for  a  woman 
whose  eyes  were  fire,  whose  look  was  love,  whose  voice  was 
the  sweetest  low  song,  whose  shape  was  perfect  symmetry, 
health,  decision,  activity-,  whose  foot  as  it  planted  itself  on  the 
ground  was  firm  but  flexible,  and  whose  motion,  whether  rapid 
or  slow,  was  always  perfect  grace  —  agile  as  a  nymph,  lofty  as 
a  queen,  —  now  melting,  now  imperious,  now  sarcastic  —  there 
was  no  single  movement  of  hers  but  was  beautiful.  As  he 
thinks  of  her,  he  who  writes  feels  young  again,  and  remembers 
a  paragon. 

So  she  came  holding  her  dress  with  one  fair  rounded  arm, 
and  her  taper  before  her,  tripping  down  the  stair  to  greet 
Esmond. 

''  She  hath  put  on  her  scarlet  stockings  and  white  shoes," 
sa^'s  my  lord,  still  laughing.  "  Oh,  my  fine  mistress  !  is  this 
the  way  you  set  your  cap  at  the  Captain?  "  She  approached, 
shining  smile?  upon  Esmond,  who  could  look  at  nothing  but  her 


190  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

e3'es.  She  advanced  holding  forward  her  head,  as  if  she  would 
have  him  kiss  her  as  he  used  to  do  when  she  was  a  child. 

"  Stop,"  she  said,  "  I  am  grown  too  big  !  Welcome,  cousin 
Harr}',"  and  she  made  him  an  arch  curtsy,  sweeping  down  to- 
the  ground  ahnost,  with  the  most  gracious  bend,  looking  up  the 
while  with  the  brightest  e^^es  and  sweetest  smile.  Love  seemed 
to  radiate  from  her.  Harry  eyed  her  with  such  a  rapture  as  the; 
first  lover  is  described  as  having  by  Milton. 

"  N'est-ce  pas?"  says  my  lady,  in  a  low,  sweet  voice,  still 
hanging  on  his  arm. 

Esmond  turned  round  with  a  start  and  ablush,  as  he  met  hij* 
mistress's  clear  eyes.  He  had  forgotten  her,  rapt  in  admiration 
of  the  Jilia  palcnor. 

"Right  foot  forward,  toe  turned  out,  so:  now  drop  the 
curtsy,  and  show  the  red  stockings,  Trix.  They've  silver 
clocks,  Flarry.  The  Dowager  sent  'em.  She  went  to  put  'em 
on,"  cries  m}'  lord. 

"Hush,  you  stupid  child!"  says  Miss,  smothering  her 
brother  with  kisses  ;  and  then  she  must  come  and  kiss  her 
mamma,  looking  all  the  while  at  Harry,  over  his  mistress's 
shoulder.  And  if  she  did  not  kiss  him,  she  gave  him  both  her 
hands,  and  then  took  one  of  his  in  both  hands,  and  said,  "  Oh, 
Harry,  we're  so,  so  glad  you're  come  !  " 

"  There  are  woodcocks  for  supper,"  says  my  lord.  "  Huz- 
za}' !     It  was  such  a  liungr}'  sermon." 

"And  it  is  the  29th  of  December ;  and  our  Harry  has  come 
home." 

"  Huzzay,  old  Pincot !  "  again  saj^s  my  lord  ;  and  ray  dear 
lady's  lips  looked  as  if  they  were  trembling  with  a  praj^er. 
She  woukl  have  Harry  lead  in  Beatrix  to  the  supper-room, 
going  herself  with  my  3'oung  Lord  Viscount ;  and  to  this  party 
came  Tom  Tusher  directly,  whom  four  at  least  out  of  the  com- 
pany of  five  wished  away.  Away  he  went,  however,  as  soon 
as  the  sweetmeats  were  put  down,  and  then,  by  the  great  crack- 
ling fire,  his  mistress  or  Beatrix,  with  her  blushing  graces, 
filling  his  glass  for  him,  Harry  told  the  story  of  his  campaign, 
and  passed  the  most  delightful  night  his  life  had  ever  known. 
The  sun  was  up  long  ere  he  was,  so  deep,  sweet,  and  refreshing 
was  his  slumber.  He  woke  as  if  angels  had  been  watching  at 
his  bed  all  night.  I  dare  say  one  that  was  as  pure  and  loving 
as  an  angel  had  blessed  his  sleep  with  her  prayers. 

Next  morning  the  chaplain  read  prayers  to  the  little  house- 
hold at  Walcote,  as  the  custom  was  ;  Esmond  thought  Mistress 
Beatrix  did  not  listen  to  Tusher's  exhortation  much :  her  eyes 


^THE  HISTORY  OF  HENKY  ESMOND.  191 

were  wandering  everywhere  during  the  service,  at  least  when- 
ever he  looked  up  he  met  them.  Perhaps  he  also  was  not  very 
attentive  to  his  Eeverence  the  Chaplain.  "This  might  have 
been  m}'  life,"  he  was  thinking;  ''this  might  have  been  my 
duty  from  now  till  old  age.  Well,  were  it  not  a  pleasant  one 
to  be  with  these  dear  friends  and  part  from  'em  no  more  ?  Un- 
til —  until  the  destined  lover  comes  and  takes  away  pretty  Bea- 
trix"—  and  the  best  part  of  Tom  Tusher's  exposition,  which 
may  have'  been  very  learned  and  eloquent,  was  quite  lost  to 
poor  Harry  by  this  vision  of  the  destined  lover,  who  put  the 
preacher  out. 

All  the  while  of  the  pra3^ers,  Beatrix  knelt  a  little  wa}^  be- 
fore Hany  Esmond.  The  red  stockings  were  changed  for  a 
pair  of  gra3%  and  black  shoes,  in  which  her  feet  looked  to  the 
full  as  prett3\  All  the  roses  of  spring  could  not  vie  with  the 
brightness  of  her  complexion  ;  Esmond  thought  he  had  never 
seen  anything  like  the  sunny  lustre  of  her  eyes.  M}^  Lady 
Viscountess  looked  fatigued,  as  if  with  watching,  and  her  face 
was  pale. 

Miss  Beatrix  remarked  these  signs  of  indisposition  in  her 
mother  and  deplored  them.  "I  am  an  old  woman,"  says  m}^ 
lady,  with  a  kind  smile;  "I  cannot  hope  to  look  as  young  as 
you  do,  my  dear." 

"  She'll  never  look  as  good  as  you  do  if  she  lives  till  she's  a 
hundred,"  says  my  lord,  taking  his  mother  b}'  the  waist,  and 
kissing  her  hand. 

"Do  I  look  very  wicked,  cousin?"  sa^'s  Beatrix,  turning 
full  round  on  Esmond,  with  her  pretty  face  so  close  under  his 
chin,  that  the  soft  perfumed  hair  touched  it.  She  laid  her  fin- 
ger-tips on  his  sleeve  as  she  spoke ;  and  he  put  his  other  hand 
over  hers. 

"I'm  like  3'our  looking-glass,"  says  he,  "and  that  can't 
flatter  you." 

"  He  means  that  3'ou  are  alwa3'S  looking  at  him,  my  dear," 
says  her  mother,  archly.  Beatrix  ran  awa3'  from  Esmond  at 
this,  and  flew  to  her  mamma,  whom  she  kissed,  stopping  my 
lady's  mouth  with  her  prett3"  hand. 

"  And  Hany  is  ver3'  good  to  look  at,"  says  m3"  lad3',  with 
her  fond  eyes  regarding  the  3'oung  man. 

"  If  'tis  good  to  see  a  happ3^  face,"  says  he,  "  3'ou  see  that." 
M3^  lady  said,  "Amen,"  with  a  sigh;  and  Hany  thought  the 
memor3'  of  her  dear  lord  rose  up  and  rebuked  her  back  again 
into  sadness  ;  for  her  face  lost  the  smile,  and  resumed  its  look 
of  melanchol3\ 


192  THE  HISTORY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

"Why,  Harry,  how  fine  we  look  in  our  scarlet  and  silver, 
and  our  black  periwig,"  cries  my  lord.  "Mother,  I  am  tired 
of  m}"  own  hair.  When  shall  I  have  a  peruke?  Where  did 
you  get  3'our  steenkirk,  Hany  ?" 

"  It's  some  of  my  Lady  Dowager's  lace,"  says  Harry  ;  "  she 
gave  me  this  and  a  number  of  other  fine  things." 

"My  Lad}^  Dowager  isn't  such  a  bad  woman,"  m}^  lord 
continued. 

"  She's  not  so  —  so  red  as  she's  painted,"  says  Miss  Beatrix. 

Her  brother  broke  into  a  laugh.  "  I'll  tell  her  you  said  so  ; 
b}^  the  Lord,  Trix,  I  will,"  he  cries  out. 

"  She'll  know  that  you  hadn't  the  wit  to  sa}^  it,  my  lord," 
says  Miss  Beatrix. 

"We  won't  quarrel  the  first  da}^  Harrj-'s  here,  will  we, 
mother?"  said  the  young  lord.  "We'll  see  if  we  can  get  on 
to  the  new  3'ear  without  a  fight.  Have  some  of  this  Christmas 
pie.  And  here  comes  the  tankard ;  no,  it's  Pincot  with  the 
tea." 

"Will  the  Captain  choose  a  dish?"  asked  Mistress  Beatrix. 

"I  sa}',  Harry,"  my  lord  goes  on,  "I'll  show  thee  ray 
horses  after  breakfast ;  and  we'll  go  a  bird-netting  to-night, 
and  on  Monday  there's  a  cock-match  at  Winchester  —  do  you 
love  cock-fighting,  Harry?  —  between  the  gentlemen  of  Sussex 
and  the  gentlemen  of  Hampshire,  at  ten  pound  the  battle,  and 
fift}"  pound  the  odd  battle  to  show  one-ancl-twenty  cocks." 

"And  what  will  you  do,  Beatrix,  to  amuse  our  kinsman?" 
asks  my  lad3\ 

"I'll  listen  to  him,"  says  Beatrix.  "I  am  sure  he  has  a 
hundred  things  to  tell  us.  And  I'm  jealous  already  of  the 
Spanish  ladies.  Was  that  a  beautiful  nun  at  Cadiz  that  3'ou 
rescued  from  the  soldiers?  Your  man  talked  of  it  last  night 
in  the  kitchen,  and  Mrs.  Bett}^  told  me  this  morning  as  she 
combed  my  hair.  And  he  says  you  must  be  in  love,  for  you 
sat  on  deck  all  night,  and  scribbled  verses  all  day  in  3'our  table- 
book."  Harry  thought  if  he  had  wanted  a  subject  for  verses 
3'esterday,  to-day  he  had  found  one  :  and  not  all  the  Lindamiras 
and  Ardelias  of  the  poets  were  half  so  beautiful  as  this  3^oung 
creature  ;  but  he  did  not  sa3^  so,  though  some  one  did  for  him. 

This  was  his  dear  lady,  who,  after  the  meal  was  over,  and 
the  3'oung  people  were  gone,  began  talking  of  her  children 
with  Mr.  Esmond,  and  of  the  characters  of  one  and  the  other, 
and  of  her  hopes  and  fears  for  both  of  them.  "  'Tis  not  while 
the3*  are  at  home,"  she  said,  "and  in  their  mother's  nest,  I 
fear  for  them  —  'tis  when  they  are  gone  into  the  world,  whither 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  193 

I  shall  not  be  able  to  follow  them.  Beatrix  will  begin  her  ser- 
vice next  year.  You  may  have  heard  a  rumor  about  —  about 
my  Lord  Blandford.  They  were  both  children  ;  and  it  is  but 
idle  talk.  I  know  mj^  kinswoman  would  never  let  liim  make 
such  a  poor  marriage  as  our  Beatrix  would  be.  There's  scarce 
a  princess  in  Europe  that  she  thinks  is  good  enough  for  him  or 
for  her  ambition." 

''There's  not  a  princess  in  Europe  to  compare  with  her," 
says  Esmond. 

"  In  beauty?  No,  perhaps  not,"  answered  my  lady.  "  She 
is  most  beautiful,  isn't  she?  'Tis  not  a  mother's  partiality  that 
deceives  me.  I  marked  you  yesterday  when  she  came  down 
the  stair  :  and  read  it  in  your  face.  We  look  when  you  don't 
fancy  us  looking,  and  see  better  than  you  think,  dear  Harry : 
and  just  now  when  thej^  spoke  about  3'our  poems  —  you  writ 
prett}^  lines  when  you  were  but  a  boy — you  thought  Beatrix 
was  a  pretty  subject  for  verse,  did  not  you,  Harry?"  (The 
gentleman  co,uld  only  blush  for  a  reply.)  "  And  so  she  is  — 
nor  are  3'ou  the  first  her  prett}'  face  has  captivated.  'Tis 
quickly  done.  Such  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  as  hers  learn  their 
power  very  soon,  and  use  it  very  early."  And,  looking  at  him 
keenl}'  with  hers,  the  fair  widow  left  him. 

And  so  it  is  —  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  with  a  dozen  glances 
suffice  to  subdue  a  man  ;  to  enslave  him,  and  inflame  him  ;  to 
make  him  even  forget ;  the}"  dazzle  him  so  that  the  past  becomes 
straightway  dim  to  him  ;  and  he  so  prizes  them  that  he  would 
give  all  his  life  to  possess  'em.  AVhat  is  the  fond  love  of 
dearest  friends  compared  to  this  treasure?  Is  memor}^  as 
strong  as  expectancy?  fruition,  as  hunger?  gratitude,  as  de- 
sire ?  I  have  looked  at  royal  diamonds  in  the  jewel-rooms  in 
Europe,  and  thought  how  wars  have  been  made  about  'em  ; 
Mogul  sovereigns  deposed  and  strangled  for  them,  or  ransomed 
with  them  ;  milhons  expended  to  buy  them  ;  and  daring  lives 
lost  in  digging  out  the  little  shining  toys  that  I  value  no  more 
than  the  button  in  m}^  hat.  And  so  there  are  other  glittering 
baubles  (of  rare  water  too)  for  which  men  have  been  set  to  kill 
and  quarrel  ever  since  mankind  began  ;  and  which  last  but  for 
a  score  of  3'ears,  when  their  sparkle  is  over.  Where  are  those 
jewels  now  that  beamed  under  Cleopatra's  forehead,  or  shone 
in  the  sockets  of  Helen  ? 

The  second  dsij  after  Esmond's  coming  to  Walcote,  Tom 
Tusher  had  leave  to  take  a  holiday,  and  went  off"  in  his  very 
best  gown  and  bands  to  court  the  .young  woman  whom  his 
Reverence  desired  to  marry,   and  who  was  not  a  viscount's 

13 


194  THE  HISTOKY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

widow,  as  it  turned  out,  but  a  brewer's  relict  at  Southampton, 
with  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  to  her  fortune :  for  honest 
Tom's  heart  was  under  such  excellent  control,  that  Venus  her- 
self without  a  portion  would  never  have  caused  it  to  flutter. 
So  he  rode  away  on  his  heavy-paced  gelding  to  pursue  his  jog- 
trot loves,  leaving  Esmond  to  the  society  of  his  dear  mistress 
and  her  daughter,  and  with  his  3'oung  lord  for  a  companion, 
who  was  charmed,  not  only  to  see  an  old  friend,  but  to  have 
the  tutor  and  his  Latin  books  put  out  of  the  way. 

The  boy  talked  of  things  and  people,  and  not  a  little  about 
himself,  in  his  frank  artless  way.  'Twas  eas}^  to  see  that  he 
and  his  sister  had  the  better  of  their  fond  mother,  for  the  first 
place  in  whose  affections,  though  they  fought  constantly,  and 
though  the  kind  lady  persisted  that  she  loved  both  equally, 
'twas  not  difficult  to  understand  that  Frank  was  his  mother's 
darling  and  favorite.  lie  ruled  the  whole  household  (always 
excepting  rebellious  Beatrix)  not  less  now  than  when  he  was  a 
child  marshalling  the  village  boys  in  playing  at  soldiers,  and 
caning  them  lustily  too,  like  the  sturdiest  corporal.  As  for 
Tom  Tusher,  his  Reverence  treated  the  young  lord  with  that 
politeness  and  deference  which  he  alwaj^s  showed  for  a  great 
man,  whatever  his  age  or  his  stature  was.  Indeed,  with  re- 
spect to  this  3'oung  one,  it  was  impossible  not  to  love  him,  so 
frank  and  winning  were  his  manners,  his  beauty,  his  gaj'et^', 
the  ring  of  his  laughter,  and  the  delightful  tone  of  his  voice. 
Wherever  he  went,  he  charmed  and  domineered.  I  think  his 
old  grandfather  the  Dean,  and  the  grim  old  housekeeper,  Mrs. 
Pincot,  were  as  much  his  slaves  as  his  mother  was  :  and  as  for 
Esmond,  he  found  himself  presentlj'  submitting  to  a  certain 
fascination  the  bo}'  had,  and  slaving  it  like  the  rest  of  the 
famil3\  The  pleasure  whic  h  he  had  in  Frank's  mere  company 
and  converse  exceeded  that  which  he  ever  enjo^^ed  in  the  society 
of  an}'  other  man,  however  delightful  in  talk,  or  famous  for  wit. 
His  presence  brought  sunshine  into  a  room,  his  laugh,  his 
prattle,  his  noble  beauty  and  brightness  of  look  cheered  and 
charmed  indescribabl3^  At  the  least  tale  of  sorrow,  his  hands 
Y/ere  in  his  purse,  and  he  was  eager  with  sj'mpathy  and  bounty. 
The  wa}'  in  which  women  Icved  and  petted  him,  when,  a  year 
or  two  afterwards,  he  came  upon  the  world,  yet  a  mere  boy, 
and  the  follies  which  they  did  for  him  (as  indeed  he  for  them), 
recalled  the  career  of  Rochester,  and  outdid  the  successes  of 
Grammont.  His  very  creditors  loved  him  ;  and  the  hardest 
usurers,  and  some  of  the  rigid  prudes  of  the  other  sex  too, 
could  deny  him  nothing.     He  was  no  more  witty  than  another 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  195 

man,  but  what  he  said,  he  said  and  looked  as  no  man  else 
could  sa}'  or  look  it.  I  have  seen  the  women  at  the  corned}^  at 
Bruxelles  crowd  round  him  in  the  lobby :  and  as  he  sat  on  the 
stage  more  people  looked  at  him  than  at  the  actors,  and  watched 
him ;  and  I  remember  at  Ramillies,  when  he  was  hit  and  fell,  a 
great  big  red-haired  Scotch  sergeant  flung  his  halbert  down, 
burst  out  a-crying  like  a  woman,  seizing  him  up  as  if  he  had 
been  an  infant,  and  carrying  him  out  of  the  fire.  This  brother 
and  sister  were  the  most  beautiful  couple  ever  seen ;  though 
after  he  winged  away  from  the  maternal  nest  this  pair  were 
seldom  together. 

Sitting  at  dinner  two  days  after  Esmond's  arrival  (it  was  the 
last  da}^  of  the  A'ear),  and  so  happy  a  one  to  Harry  Esmond, 
that  to  enjoj^  it  was  quite  worth  all  the  previous  pain  which  he 
had  endured  and  forgot,  my  young  lord,  filling  a  bumper,  and 
bidding  Harry  take  another,  drank  to  his  sister,  saluting  her 
under  the  title  of  "  Marchioness." 

"  Marclvoness  !  "  says  Harr}^  not  without  a  pang  of  wonder, 
for  he  was  curious  and  jealous  already. 

"  Nonsense,  my  lord,"  says  Beatrix,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 
My  Lady  Viscountess  looked  up  for  a  moment  at  Esmond,  and 
cast  her  e3'es  down. 

"The  Marchioness  of  Blandford,"  says  Frank.  "Don't 
you  know  —  hath  not  Rouge  Dragon  told  you?"  (My  lord 
used  to  call  the  Dowager  of  Chelsey  by  this  and  other  names.) 
"  Blandford  has  a  lock  of  her  hair;  the  Duchess  found  him  on 
his  knees  to  Mistress  Trix,  and  boxed  his  ears,  and  said  Dr. 
Hare  should  whip  him." 

"I  wish  Mr.  Tusher  would  whip  3'ou  too,"  says  Beatrix. 

My  lady  onl}^  said  :  "  I  hope  you  will  tell  none  of  these  silly 
stories  elsewhere  than  at  home,  Francis." 

" 'Tis  true,  on  my  word,"  continues  Frank:  "look  at 
Harry  scowling,  mother,  and  see  how  Beatrix  blushes  as  red 
as  the  silver-clocked  stockings." 

"  I  think  we  had  best  leave  the  gentlemen  to  their  wine  and 
their  talk,"  says  Mistress  Beatrix,  rising  up  with  the  air  of  a 
young  queen,  tossing  her  rustling  flowing  draperies  about  her, 
and  quitting  the  room,  follow^ed  b}'  her  mother. 

Lady  Castle  wood  again  looked  at  Esmond,  as  she  stooped 
down  and  kissed  Frank.  "Do  not  tell  those  silly  stories, 
child,"  she  said:  "do  not  drink  much  wine,  sir;  Harr}-  never 
loved  to  drink  wine."  And  she  went  away,  too,  in  her  black 
robes,  looking  back  on  the  young  man  with  her  fair,  fond 
face. 


196  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

"Egad!  it's  true,"  says  Frank,  sipping  his  wine  with  the 
air  of  a  lord.  "What  think  you  of  this  Lisbon  —  real  Col- 
lares  ?  'Tis  better  than  your  head}^  port :  we  got  it  out  of  one 
of  the  Spanish  ships  that  came  from  Vigo  last  year :  my 
mother  bought  it  at  Southampton,  as  the  ship  was  lying  there  — 
the  '  Rose,'  Captain  Hawkins." 

"  Whj',  I  came  home  in  that  ship,"  says  Harry. 

"And  it  brought  home  a  good  fellow  and  good  wine,"  says 
my  lord.  "  I  say,  Harry,  I  wish  thou  hadst  not  that  cursed  bar 
sinister." 

' '  And  wh}'^  not  the  bar  sinister  ?  "  asks  the  other. 

"  Suppose  I  go  to  the  army  and  am  killed  —  every  gentle- 
man goes  to  the  army  —  who  is  to  take  care  of  the  women  ? 
Trix  will  never  stop  at  home ;  mother's  in  love  with  you, — 
3'es,  I  think  mother's  in  love  with  3'ou.  She  was  alwaj'S  prais- 
ing 3'ou,  and  alwaj's  talking  about  you  ;  and  when  she  went  to 
Southampton,  to  see  the  ship,  I  found  her  out.  But  3'ou  see 
it  is  impossible :  we  are  of  the  oldest  blood  in  England  ;  we 
came  in  with  the  Conqueror  ;  we  were  only  baronets,  —  but  what 
then?  we  were  forced  into  that.  James  the  First  forced  our 
great  grandfather.  We  are  above  titles  ;  we  old  English  gentry 
don't  want  'em  ;  the  Queen  can  make  a  duke  an}^  day.  Look 
at  Blandford's  father,  Duke  Churchill,  and  Duchess  Jennings, 
what  were  they,  Harry?  Damn  it,  sir,  what  are  the}',  to  turn 
up  their  noses  at  us?  Where  were  they  when  our  ancestor 
rode  with  King  Henry  at  Agincourt,  and  filled  up  the  French 
King's  cup  after  Poictiers?  'Fore  George,  sir,  why  shouldn't 
Blandford  marry  Beatrix  ?  By  G —  !  he  shall  marry  Beatrix, 
or  tell  me  the  reason  why.  We'll  marr}'  with  the  best  blood 
of  England,  and  none  but  the  best  blood  of  England.  You 
are  an  Esmond,  and  3'ou  can't  help  3'our  birth,  my  boy.  Let's 
have  another  bottle.  What!  no  more?  I've  drunk  three 
parts  of  this  myself.  I  had  many  a  night  with  my  father ; 
you  stood  to  him  like  a  man,  Harr3\  You  backed  3'our  blood ; 
you  can't  help  your  misfortune,  you  know,  —  no  man  can  help 
that." 

The  elder  said  he  would  go  in  to  his  mistress's  tea-table. 
The  young  lad,  with  a  heightened  color  and  voice,  began  sing- 
ing a  snatch  of  a  song,  and  marched  out  of  the  room. 
Esmond  heard  him  presently  calling  his  dogs  about  him, 
and  cheering  and  talking  to  them ;  and  by  a  hundred  of 
his  looks  and  gestures,  tricks  of  voice  and  gait,  was  reminded 
of  the  dead  lord,  Frank's  father. 

And  so,  the  Sylvester  night  passed  away ;  the  famil}^  parted 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENKY  ESMOND.  197 

long  before  midnight.  Lady  Castlewood  remembering,  no 
doubt,  former  New  Years'  Eves,  wlien  healths  were  drunk, 
and  laughter  went  round  in  the  compan^^  of  him,  to  whom 
years,  past,  and  present,  and  future,  were  to  be  as  one  ;  and 
so  cared  not, to  sit  with  her  children  and  hear  the  Cathedral 
bells  ringing  the  birth  of  the  year  1703.  Esmond  heard  the 
chimes  as  he  sat  in  his  own  ohamber,  ruminating  by  the  blazing 
fire  there,  and  listened  to  the  last  notes  of  them,  looking  out 
from  his  window  towards  the  cit}^,  and  the  great  gray  towers 
of  the  Cathedral  lying  under  the  frosty  sky,  with  the  keen 
stars  shining  above. 

The  sight  of  these  brilliant  orbs  no  doubt  made  him  think 
of  other  luminaries.  ' '  And  so  her  e3'es  have  already  done 
execution,"  thought  Esmond — "on  whom?  —  who  can  tell 
me  ? "  Luckily  his  kinsman  was  b}^  and  Esmond  knew  he 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  out  Mistress  Beatrix's  his- 
tory from  the  simple  talk  of  the  boy. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FAMILY    TALK. 

What  Harry  admired  and  submitted  to  in  the  pretty  lad  his 
kinsman  was  (for  why  should  he  resist  it?)  the  calmness  of 
patronage  which  m}' young  lord  assumed,  as  if  to  command  was 
his  undoubted  right,  and  all  the  world  (below  his  degree)  ought 
to  bow  down  to  Viscount  Castlewood. 

"I  know  my  place,  Harr}-,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  proud  — 
the  boys  at  AVinchester  College  say  I'm  proud  :  but  I'm  not 
proud.  I  am  simply  Francis  James  Viscount  Castlewood  in 
the  peerage  of  Ireland.  I  might  have  been  (do  you  know 
that?)  Francis  James  Marquis  and  Earl  of  Esmond  in  that  of 
England.  The  late  lord  refused  the  title  which  was  offered  to 
him  by  my  godfather,  his  late  Majest}'.  You  should  know 
that  —  3^ou  are  of  our  famil}",  3^ou  know  —  joii  cannot  help  3'our 
bar  sinister,  Hany,  m3'  dear  fellow  ;  and  you  belong  to  one  of 
the  best  families  in  England,  in  spite  of  that ;  and  you  stood  b3' 
my  father,  and  by  G — !  I'll  stand  by  3'ou.  You  shall  never 
want  a  friend,  Harr3',  while  Francis  James  Viscount  Castlewood 
has  a  shilling.  It's  now  1703  —  I  shall  come  of  age  in  1709. 
I  shall  go  back  to  Castlewood ;  I  shall  live  at  Castlewood ;  I 


198  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

shall  build  up  the  house.  My  propert}'  will  be  pretty  well  re- 
stored by  then.  The  late  viscount  mismanaged  m}^  property, 
and  left  it  in  a  ver}'  bad  state.  My  mother  is  living  close,  as 
you  see,  and  keeps  me  in  a  way  hardly  befitting  a  peer  of  these 
realms  ;  for  I  have  but  a  pair  of  horses,  a  governor,  and  a  man 
that  is  valet  and  groom.  But  when  I  am  of  age,  these 
things  will  be  set  right,  Harry.  Our  house  will  be  as  it  should 
be.  Y^ou  will  alwa3's  come  to  Castlewood,  won't  you?  Y"ou 
shall  alwa^'s  have  your  two  rooms  in  the  court  kept  for  you ; 

and  if  anybody  slights  you,  d them  !  let  them  have  a  care 

of  me.  I  shall  marry  early  — Trix  will  be  a  duchess  by  that  time, 
most  likely  ;  for  a  cannon  ball  may  knock  over  his  grace  any 
day,  3^ou  know." 

''  How  ?  "  says  Harry. 

"  Hush,  my  dear  I  "  saj^s  my  Lord  Viscount.  "  l^ou  are  of 
the  family  —  you  are  faithful  to  us,  b}^  George,  and  I  tell  you 
ever^^thing.  Blandford  will  marry  her  —  or"  —  and  here  he 
put  his  little  hand  on  his  sword  —  "  you  understand  the  rest. 
Blandford  knows  which  of  us  two  is  the  best  weapon.  At  small- 
sword, or  back-sword,  or  sword  and  dagger  if  he  likes ;  I  can 
beat  him.  I  have  tried  him,  Harry  ;  and  begad  he  knows  I  am 
a  man  not  to  be  trifled  with." 

''But  3'ou  do  not  mean,"  sa3'S  Harr3',  concealing  his  laugh- 
ter, but  not  his  wonder,  "  that  3'ou  can  force  m3'  Lord  Blandford, 
the  son  of  the  first  man  of  this  kingdom,  to  marr3^  your  sister 
at  sword's  point  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  sa3^  that  we  are  cousins  bj'  the  mother's  side, 
though  that's  nothing  to  boast  of.  I  mean  to  say  that  an 
Esmond  is  as  good  as  a  Churchill ;  and  when  the  King  comes 
back,  the  Marquis  of  Esmond's  sister  may  be  a  match  for  an3' 
nobleman's  daughter  in  the  kingdom.  There  are  but  two  mar- 
quises in  all  England,  WiUiam  Herbert  Marquis  of  Powis,  and 
Francis  James  Marquis  of  Esmond ;  and  hark  3'ou,  Hany,  — 
now  swear  3'ou  will  never  mention  this.  Give  me  3'our  honor 
as  a  gentleman,  for  3^ou  are  a  gentleman,  though  3'ou  are  a  —  " 

"  Well,  well?"  says  Harr3',  a  little  impatient. 

"  Well,  then,  when  after  m3'  late  viscount's  misfortune,  my 
mother  went  up  with  us  to  London,  to  ask  for  justice  against 
you  all  (as  for  Mohun,  I'll  have  his  blood,  as  sure  as  m3^  name 
is  Francis  Viscount  Esmond)  —  we  went  to  stay  with  our  cousin 
ray  Lady  Marlborough,  with  whom  we  had  quarrelled  for  ever 
so  long.  But  when  misfortune  came,  she  stood  by  her  blood  ; 
—  so  did  the  Dowager  Viscountess  stand  b3^  her  blood,  —  so 
did  3'ou.     Well,   sir,  whilst  m3^  mother  was  petitioning  the  late 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  199 

Prince  of  Orange  —  for  I  will  never  call  him  king  —  and 
while  3'0ii  were  in  prison,  we  lived  at  my  Lord  Marlborough's 
house,  who  was  only  a  little  there,  being  away  with  the  army 
in  Holland.  And  then  ...  I  say,  Harry,  you  won't  tell, 
now  ?  " 

Harry  again  made  a  vow  of  secrecy. 

"Well,  there  used  to  be  all  sorts  of  fun,  3'ou  know:  my 
Lady  Marlborough  was  vei'y  fond  of  us,  and  she  said  I  was  to 
be  her  page  ;  and  she  got  Trix  to  be  a  maid  of  honor,  and 
while  she  was  up  in  her  room  cr^dng,  we  used  to  be  always 
having  fun,  3'ou  know;  and  the  Duchess  used  to  kiss  me,  and 
so  did  her  daughters,  and  Blandford  fell  tremendous  in  love 
with  Trix,  and  she  liked  him ;  and  one  da}^  he  —  he  kissed  her 
behind  a  door  —  he  did  though,  —  and  the  Duchess  caught  him, 
and  she  banged  such  a  box  of  the  ear  both  at  Trix  and  Bland- 
ford — ^3'ou' should  have  seen  it!  And  then  she  said  that  we 
must  leave  directly,  and  abused  m}'  mamma  who  was  cognizant 
of  the  business;  but  she  wasn't  —  never  thinking  about  any- 
thing but  father.  And  so  we  came  down  to  Walcote.  Bland- 
ford  being  locked  up,  and  not  allowed  to  see  Trix.  But  /got 
at  him.  I  climbed  along  the  gutter,  and  in  through  the  win- 
dow, where  he  was  crying. 

''  '  Marquis,'  says  I,  when  he  had  opened  it  and  helped  me 
in,  '  you  know  I  wear  a  sword,'  for  I  had  brought  it. 

"  '  Oh,  viscount,'  says  he  —  'oh,  my  dearest  Frank  !  '  and 
he  threw  himself  into  my  arms  and  burst  out  a-cr3'ing.  '  I  do 
love  Mistress  Beatrix  so,  that  I  shall  die  if  I  don't  have  her.' 

"  '  My  dear  Blandford,'  says  I,  '  you  are  3^oung  to  think  of 
marrying ; '  for  he  was  but  fifteen,  and  a  3'oung  fellow  of  that 
age  can  scarce  do  so,  you  know. 

"  'But  FU  wait  twent}'  years,  if  she'll  have  me,'  sa^'s  he. 
'  I'll  never  marry  —  no,  never,  never,  never,  marry  anybody 
but  her.  No,  not  a  princess,  though  they  would  have  me  do 
it  ever  so.  If  Beatrix  will  wait  for  me,  her  Blandford  swears 
he  will  be  faithful.'  And  he  wrote  a  paper  (it  wasn't  spelt 
right,  for  he  wrote  '  I'm  ready  to  sine  with  my  hlode^'  which, 
you  know,  Harr^^,  isn't  the  way  of  spelling  it),  and  vowing  that 
he  would  marr}^  none  other  but  the  Honorable  Mistress  Ger- 
trude Beatrix  P^smond,  onl^^  sister  of  his  dearest  friend  Francis 
James,  fourth  Viscount  Esmond.  And  so  I  gave  him  a  locket 
of  her  hair." 

"  A  locket  of  her  hair?  "  cries  Esmond. 

"  Yes.  Trix  gave  me  one  after  the  fight  with  the  Duchess 
that  very  day.     I  am  sure  I  didn't  want  it ;  and  so  I  gave  it 


200  THE   HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

him,  and  we  kissed  at  parting,  and  said  —  '  Good-bj^,  brother.* 
And  I  got  back  through  the  gutter  ;  and  we  set  off  home  that  xery 
evennig.  And  he  went  to  King's  College,  m  Cambridge,  and 
I'm  going  to  Cambridge  soon  ;  and  if  he  doesn't  stand  to  his 
promise  (for  he's  onl}^  wrote  once) ,  —  he  knows  I  wear  a 
sword,  Harr}^  Come  along,  and  let's  go  see  the  cocking- 
match  at  Winchester. 

"  .  .  .  .  But  I  sa}^"  he  added,  laughing,  after  a  pause,  "  I 
don't  think  Trix  will  break  her  heart  about  him.  La  bless 
you !  whenever  she  sees  a  man,  she  makes  eyes  at  him  ;  and 
young  Sir  Wilmot  Crawley  of  Queen's  Crawley,  and  Anthon}^ 
Henley  of  Alresford,  were  at  swords  drawn  about  her,  at  the 
Winchester  Assembl}',  a  month  ago." 

That  night  Mr.  Harry's  sleep  was  by  no  means  so  pleasant 
or  sweet  as  it  had  been  on  the  first  two  evenings  after  his 
aiTival  at  Walcote.  "So  the  bright  eyes  have  been  already 
shining  on  another,"  thought  he,  "  and  the  pretty  lips,  or  the 
cheeks  at  any  rate,  have  begun  the  work  which  they  were  made 
for.  Here's  a  girl  not  sixteen,  and  one  3'oung  gentleman  is 
alread}'  whimpering  over  a  lock  of  her  hair,  and  two  country 
squires  are  ready  to  cut  each  other's  throats  that  they  may 
have  the  honor  of  a  dance  with  her.  What  a  fool  am  I  to  be 
dallying  about  this  passion,  and  singeing  my  wings  in  this  fool- 
ish flame.  Wings!  —  why  not  say  crutches?  There  is  but 
eight  3'ears'  difference  between  us,  to  be  sure ;  but  in  life  I  am 
thirty  ^^ears  older.  How  could  I  ever  hope  to  please  such  a 
sweet  creature  as  that,  with  my  rough  ways  and  glum  face? 
Sa}"  that  I  have  merit  ever  so  much,  and  won  myself  a  name, 
could  she  ever  listen  to  me  ?  She  must  be  my  Lad}^  Marchion- 
ess, and  I  remain  a  nameless  bastard.  Oh  !  my  master,  my 
master ! "  (here  he  fell  to  thinking  with  a  passionate  grief  of 
the  vow  which  he  had  made  to  his  poor  dying  lord.)  "Oh! 
m}'  mistress,  dearest  and  kindest,  will  you  be  contented  with 
the  sacrifice  which  the  poor  orphan  makes  for  3"ou,  whom  you 
love,  and  who  so  loves  you?" 

And  then  came  a  fiercer  pang  of  temptation.  "A  word 
from  me,"  Harry  thought,  "  a  syllable  of  explanation,  and  all 
this  might  be  changed ;  but  no,  I  swore  it  over  the  dying  bed 
of  my  benefactor.  For  the  sake  of  him  and  his  ;  for  the  sacred 
love  and  kindness  of  old  daj's  ;  I  gave  my  promise  to  him,  and 
ma}^  kind  heaven  enable  me  to  keep  my  vow ! " 

The  next  da}-,  although  Esmond  gave  no  sign  of  what  was 
going  on  in  his  mind,  but  strove  to  be  more  than  ordinarilj'  gay 
and  cheerful  when  he  met  his  friends  at  the  morning  meal,  his 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  201 

dear  mistress,  whose  clear  e3'es  it  seemed  no  emotion  of  his 
could  escape,  perceived  that  something  troubled  him,  for  she 
looked  anxiously  towards  him  more  than  once  during  the  break- 
fast, and  when  he  went  up  to  his  chamber  afterwards  she  pres- 
ently followed  him,  and  knocked  at  his  door. 

As  she  entered,  no  doubt  the  whole  story  was  clear  to  her 
at  once,  for  she  found  our  3'oung  gentleman  packing  his  valise, 
pursuant  to  the  resolution  which  he  had  come  to  over-night  of 
making  a  brisk  retreat  out  of  this  temptation. 

She  closed  the  door  very  carefully  behind  her,  and  then 
leant  against  it,  very  pale,  her  hands  folded  before  her,  looking 
at  the  young  man,  who  was  kneeling  over  his  work  of  packing. 
*'  Are  you  going  so  soon?  "  she  said. 

He  rose  up  from  his  knees,  blushing,  perhaps,  to  be  so  dis- 
covered, in  the  very  act,  as  it  were,  and  took  one  of  her  fair 
little  hands  —  it  was  that  which  had  her  marriage  ring  on  — 
and  kissed  it. 

"  It  is  best  that  it  should  be  so,  dearest  lady,"  he  said. 

"  I  knew  you  were  going,  at  breakfast.  I  —  I  thought  3^ou 
might  sttxy.  What  has  happened?  Why  can't  you  remain 
longer  with  us  ?  What  has  Frank  told  you  —  you  were  talking 
together  late  last  night?" 

"I  had  but  three  days'  leave  from  Chelse}^"  Esmond  said, 
as  gayl}'  as  he  could.  ' '  My  aunt  —  she  lets  me  call  her  aunt  —  is 
my  mistress  now  !  I  owe  her  m}^  lieutenancy  and  my  laced  coat. 
She  has  taken  me  into  high  favor ;  and  my  new  General  Is  to 
dine  at  Chelse}'  to-morrow  —  General  Lumle}',  madam  —  who 
has  appointed  me  his  aide-de-camp,  and  on  whom  I  must  have 
the  honor  of  waiting.  See,  here  is  a  letter  from  the  Dowager ; 
the  post  brought  it  last  night ;  and  I  would  not  speak  of  it,  for 
fear  of  disturbing  our  last  merry  meeting." 

My  lady  glanced  at  the  letter,  and  put  it  down  with  a  smile 
that  was  somewhat  contemptuous.  "I  have  no  need  to  read 
the  letter,"  says  she  --  (indeed,  'twas  as  well  she  did  not ;  for 
the  Chelsey  missive,  in  the  poor  Dowager's  usual  French  jargon, 
permitted  him  a  longer  holiday  than  he  said.  "  Je  vous  donne," 
quoth  her  ladyship,  "  oui  jour,  pour  vous  fatigay  parfaictement 
de  vos  parens  fatigans  ")  —  "I  have  no  need  to  read  the  letter," 
says  she.     "  What  was  it  Frank  told  3'ou  last  night?" 

"  He  told  me  little  I  did  not  know,"  Mr.  Esmond  answered. 
"But  I  have  thought  of  that  little,  and  here's  the  result:  I 
have  no  right  to  the  name  I  bear,  dear  lady  ;  and  it  is  only  by 
your  sufferance  that  I  am  allowed  to  keep  it.  If  I  thought  for 
an  hour  of  what  has  perhaps  crossed  your  mind  too  —  " 


202  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

"  Y'es,  I  did,  Harr}',"  said  she  ;  "  I  thought  of  it ;  and  think 
of  it.  I  would  sooner  call  you  my  son  than  the  greatest  prince 
in  Europe  —  yes,  than  the  greatest  prince.  For  who  is  there 
so  good  and  so  brave,  and  who  would  love  her  as  you  would  ? 
But  there  are  reasons  a  mother  can't  tell." 

"I  know  them,"  said  Mr.  Esmond,  interrupting  her  with  a 
smile.  "  I  know  there's  Sir  Wilmot  Crawley  of  Queen's  Craw- 
ley, and  Mr.  Anthony  Henley  of  the  Grange,  and  my  Lord 
Marquis  of  Blandford,  that  seems  to  be  the  favored  suitor. 
You  shall  ask  me  to  wear  my  Lady  Marchioness's  favors  and 
to  dance  at  her  ladyship's  wedding." 

"  Oh  !  Harry,  Harry,  it  is  none  of  these  follies  that  frighten 
me,"  cried  out  Lady  Castlewood.  "Lord  Churchill  is  but  a 
child,  his  outbreak  about  Beatrix  was  a  mere  boyish  folly.  His 
parents  would  rather  see  him  buried  than  married  to  one  below 
him  in  rank.  And  do  you  think  that  I  would  stoop  to  sue  for 
a  husband  for  Francis  Esmond's  daughter ;  or  submit  to  have 
my  girl  smuggled  into  that  proud  famil}'  to  cause  a  quarrel 
between  son  and  parents,  and  to  be  treated  onh'  as  an  inferior? 
I  would  disdain  such  a  meanness.  Beatrix  would  scorn  it. 
Ah !  Henr}',  'tis  not  with  3'ou  the  fault  lies,  'tis  with  her.  I 
know  3'ou  both,  and  love  3'ou  :  need  I  be  ashamed  of  that  love 
now?  No,  never,  never,  and  'tis  not  3'OU,  dear  Harry,  that  is 
unworthy.  'Tis  for  m3'  poor  Beatrix  I  tremble  —  whose  head- 
strong will  frightens  me  ;  whose  jealous  temper  (the3"  say  I  was 
jealous  too,  but,  pra3'^  God,  I  am  cured  of  that  sin)  and  whose 
vanit3^  no  words  or  prayers  of  mine  can  cure  —  onl3^  suffering, 
onl3^  experience,  and  remorse  afterwards.  Oh !  Henr3%  she 
will  make  no  man  happ3^  who  loves  her.  Go  away,  my  son : 
leave  her :  love  us  alwa3's,  and  think  kindly  of  us  :  and  for  me, 
m3^  dear,  you  know  that  these  walls  contain  all  that  I  love  in 
the  world." 

In  after  life,  did  Esmond  find  the  words  true  which  his  fond 
mistress  spoke  from  her  sad  heart?  Warning  he  had:  but  I 
doubt  others  had  warning  before  his  time,  and  since :  and  he 
benefited  b3'  it  as  most  men  do. 

M3^  3'oung  Lord  Viscount  was  exceeding  sorry  when  he 
heard  that  I-Iarr3^  could  not  come  to  the  cock-match  with  him, 
and  must  go  to  London,  but  no  doubt  m3"  lord  consoled  him- 
self when  the  Hampshire  cocks  won  the  match ;  and  he  saw 
ever3^  one  of  the  battles,  and  crowed  properl3'  over  the  con- 
quered Sussex  gentlemen. 

As  Esmond  rode  towards  town  his  servant,  coming  up  to 
him,   informed  him  with  a  grin,  that   Mistress   Beatrix   had 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  203 

brought  out  a  new  gown  and  blue  stockings  for  that  daj-'s 
dinner,  in  whicli  she  intended  to  appear,  and  had  flown  into  a 
rage  and  given  her  maid  a  slap  on  the  face  soon  after  she  heard 
he  was  going  SiWSi}\  Mistress  Beatrix's  woman,  the  fellow 
said,  came  down  to  the  servants'  hall  cr3'ing,  and  with  the 
mark  of  a  blow  still  on  her  cheek :  but  Esmond  peremptorily 
ordered  him  to  fall  back  and  be  silent,  and  rode  on  with 
thoughts  enough  of  his  own  to  occup}^  him  —  some  sad  ones, 
some  inexpressibly  dear  and  pleasant. 

His  mistress,  from  whom  he  had  been  a  3'ear  separated,  was 
his  dearest  mistress  again.  The  family  from  which  he  had  been 
parted,  and  which  he  loved  with  the  fondest  devotion,  was  his 
family  once  more.  If  Beatrix's  beauty  shone  upon  him,  it  was 
with  a  friendly  lustre,  and  he  could  regard  it  with  much  such 
a  delight  as  he  brought  away  after  seeing  the  beautiful  pictures 
of  the  smiling  Madonnas  in  the  convent  at  Cadiz,  when  he  was 
despatched  thither  with  a  flag ;  and  as  for  his  mistress,  'twas 
difficult  to  say  with  what  a  feeling  he  regarded  her.  'Twas 
happiness  to  have  seen  her ;  'twas  no  great  pang  to  part ;  a 
fihal  tenderness,  a  love  that  was  at  once  respect  and  protection, 
filled  his  mind  as  he  thought  of  her ;  and  near  her  or  far  from 
her,  and  from  that  da\'  until  now,  and  from  now  till  death 
is  past  and  beyond  it,  he  prays  that  sacred  flame  may  ever 
burn. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

I   MAKE    THE    CAMPAIGN    OF    1704. 

Mr.  Esmond  rode  up  to  London  then,  where,  if  the  Dowager 
had  been  angry  at  the  abrupt  leave  of  absence  he  took,  she  was 
mightily  pleased  at  his  speed}^  return. 

He  went  immediately  and  paid  his  court  to  his  new  general, 
General  Lumley,  who  received  him  graciously*,  having  known 
his  father,  and  also,  he  was  pleased  to  say,  having  had  the 
very  best  accounts  of  Mr.  Esmond  from  the  officer  whose  aide- 
de-camp  he  had  been  at  Vigo.  During  this  winter  Mr.  Esmond 
was  gazetted  to  a  lieutenancy  in  Brigadier  Webb's  regiment  of 
Fusileers,  then  with  their  colonel  in  Flanders ;  but  being  now 
attached  to  the  suite  of  Mr.  Lumley,  Esmond  did  not  join  his 
own  regiment  until  more  than  a  year  afterwards,  and  after  his 
return  from  the  campaign  of  Blenheim,  which  was  fought  the 


204  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

next  3^ear.  The  campaign  began  very  early,  our  troops  march- 
ing out  of  their  quarters  before  the  winter  was  almost  over,  and 
investing  the  city  of  Bonn,  on  the  Rhine,  under  the  Duke's 
command.  His  Grace  joined  the  army  in  deep  grief  of  mind, 
with  crape  on  his  sleeve,  and  his  household  in  mourning ;  and 
the  very  same  packet  which  brought  the  Commander-in-Chief 
over,  brought  letters  to  the  forces  which  preceded  him,  and 
one  from  his  dear  mistress  to  Esmond,  which  interested  him 
not  a  little. 

The  young  Marquis  of  Blandford,  his  Grace's  son,  who  had 
been  entered  in  King's  College  in  Cambridge,  (whither  my  Lord 
Viscount  had  also  gone,  to  Trinity,  with  Mr.  Tusher  as  his 
governor,)  had  been  seized  with  small-pox,  and  was  dead  at 
sixteen  jears  of  age,  and  so  poor  Frank's  schemes  for  his 
sister's  advancement  were  over,  and  that  innocent  childish 
passion  nipped  in  the  birth. 

Esmond's  mistress  would  have  had  him  return,  at  least  her 
letters  hinted  as  much ;  but  in  the  presence  of  the  enemj'  this 
was  impossible,  and  our  young  man  took  his  humble  share  in 
the  siege,  which  need  not  be  described  here,  and  had  the  good 
luck  to  escape  without  a  wound  of  any  sort,  and  to  drink  his 
general's  health  after  the  surrender.  He  was  in  constant  mili- 
tary duty  this  jear,  and  did  not  think  of  asking  for  a  leave  of 
absence,  as  one  or  two  of  his  less  fortunate  friends  did,  who 
were  cast  away  in  that  tremendous  storm  which  happened 
towards  the  close  of  November,  that  "  which  of  late  o'er  pale 
Britannia  past"  (as  Mr.  Addison  sang  of  it),  and  in  which 
scores  of  our  greatest  ships  and  15,000  of  our  seamen  went 
down. 

The}^  said  that  our  Duke  was  quite  heart-broken  by  the 
calamity  which  had  befallen  his  famih' ;  but  his  enemies  found 
that  he  could  subdue  them,  as  well  as  master  his  grief.  Suc- 
cessful as  had  been  this  great  General's  operations  in  the  past 
3^ear,  they  were  far  enhanced  by  the  splendor  of  his  victor}^  in 
the  ensuing  campaign.  His  Grace  the  Captain-General  went 
to  England  after  Bonn,  and  our  army  fell  back  into  Holland, 
where,  in  April  1704,  his  Grace  again  found  the  troops,  em- 
barking from  Harwich  and  landing  at  Maesland  Sluys  :  thence 
his  Grace  came  immediately  to  the  Hague,  where  he  received 
the  foreign  ministers,  general  officers,  and  other  people  of 
quality.  The  greatest  honors  were  paid  to  his  Grace  every- 
where—  at  the  Hague,  Utrecht,  Ruremonde,  and  Maestricht; 
the  civil  authorities  coming  to  meet  his  coaches  :  sah^os  of 
cannon  saluting  him,  canopies  of  state  being  erected  for  him 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  205 

where  he  stopped,  and  feasts  prepared  for  the  numerous  gentle- 
men following  in  his  suite.  His  Grace  reviewed  the  troops  of 
the  States-General  between  Liege  and  Maestricht,  and  after- 
wards the  English  forces,  under  the  command  of  General 
Churchill,  near  Bois-le-Duc.  Ever}"  preparation  was  made  for 
a  long  march ;  and  the  arm^^  heard,  with  no  small  elation,  that 
it  was  the  Commander-in-Chief's  intention  to  carry  the  war  out 
of  the  Low  Countries,  and  to  march  on  the  Mozelle.  Before 
leaving  our  camp  at  Maestricht,  we  heard  that  the  French,  un- 
der the  Marshal  Villeroy,  were  also  bound  towards  the  Mozelle. 

Towards  the  end  of  May,  the  army  reached  Coblentz  ;  and 
next  day,  his  Grace,  and  the  generals  accompanying  him, 
went  to  visit  the  Elector  of  Treves  at  his  Castle  of  Ehrenbreit- 
stein,  the  horse  and  dragoons  passing  the  Rhine  whilst  the 
Duke  was  entertaiiled  at  a  grand  feast  by  the  Elector.  All  as 
yet  was  novelt}",  festivit}^,  and  splendor  —  a  brilliant  march  of 
a  great  and  glorious  army  through  a  friendl}"  countrj',  and  sure 
through  some  of  the  most  beautiful  scenes  of  nature  which  I 
ever  witnessed. 

The  foot  and  artillerj^,  following  after  the  horse  as  quick 
as  possible,  crossed  the  Rhine  under  Ehrenbreitstein,  and  so 
to  Castel,  over  against  Mayntz,  in  which  city  his  Grace,  his 
generals,  and  his  retinue  were  received  at  the  landing-place  by 
the  Elector's  coaches,  carried  to  his  Highness's  palace  amidst 
the  thunder  of  cannon,  and  then  once  more  magnificently  enter- 
tained. Gidlingen,  in  Bavaria,  was  appointed  as  the  general 
rendezvous  of  the  army,  and  thither,  by  different  routes,  the 
whole  forces  of  English,  Dutch,  Danes,  and  German  auxiliaries 
took  their  way.  The  foot  and  artillery  under  General  Churchill 
passed  the  Neckar,  at  Heidelberg  ;  and  Esmond  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  that  city  and  palace,  once  so  famous  and 
beautiful  (though  shattered  and  battered  b}'  the  French,  under 
Turenne,  in  the  late  war),  where  his  grandsire  had  served  the 
beautiful  and  unfortunate  Electress-Palatine,  the  first  King 
Charles's  sister. 

At  Mindelsheim,  the  famous  Prince  of  Savoy  came  to  visit 
our  commander,  all  of  us  crowding  eagerly  to  get  a  sight  of 
that  brilliant  and  intrepid  warrior  ;  and  our  troops  were  drawn 
up  in  battalia  before  the  Prince,  who  was  pleased  to  express 
his  admiration  of  this  noble  English  army.  At  length  we  came 
in  sight  of  the  enem}'  between  Dillingen  and  Lawingen,  the 
Brentz  lying  between  the  two  armies.  The  Elector,  judging 
that  Donauwort  would  be  the  point  of  his  Grace's  attack,  sent 
a  strong  detachment  of  his  best  troops  to  Count  Darcos,  who 


206  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

was  posted  at  Schellenberg,  near  that  place,  where  great  in- 
trenchments  were  thrown  up,  and  thousands  of  pioneers  em- 
plo3'ed  to  strengthen  the  position. 

On  the  2nd  of  July  his  Grace  stormed  the  post,  with  what 
success  on  our  part  need  scarce  be  told.  His  Grace  advanced 
with  six  thousand  foot,  English  and  Dutch,  thirty  squadrons, 
and  three  regiments  of  Imperial  Cuirassiers,  the  Duke  cross- 
ing the  river  at  the  head  of  the  cavalry.  Although  our  troops 
made  the  attack  with  unparalleled  courage  and  fury  — rushing  up 
to  the  very  guns  of  the  enem}^  and  being  slaughtered  before  their 
works  —  we  were  driven  back  manj^  times,  and  should  not  have 
carried  them,  but  that  the  Imperialists  came  up  under  the  Prince 
of  Baden,  when  the  enemy  could  make  no  head  against  us :  we 
pursued  them  into  the  trenches,  making  a  terrible  slaughter 
there,  and  into  the  very  Danube,  where  a  great  part  of  his 
troops,  foUovC'ing  the  example  of  their  generals.  Count  Darcos 
and  the  Elector  himself,  tried  to  save  themselves  by  swimming. 
Our  army  entered  Donauwort,  which  the  Bavarians  evacuated  ; 
and  where  'twas  said  the  Elector  purposed  to  have  given  us  a 
warm  reception,  by  burning  us  in  our  beds  ;  the  cellars  of  the 
houses,  when  we  took  possession  of  them,  being  found  stuffed 
with  straw.  But  though  the  links  were  there,  the  link-boys  had 
run  away.  The  townsmen  saved  their  houses,  and  our  General 
took  possession  of  the  enemy's  ammunition  in  the  arsenals,  his 
stores,  and  magazines.  Five  daj's  afterwards  a  great  "  Te 
Deum  "  was  sung  in  Prince  Lewis's  arm}-,  and  a  solemn  day  of 
thanksgiving  held  in  our  own  ;  the  Prince  of  Savoj^'s  compli- 
ments coming  to  his  Grace  the  Captain-General  during  the  da3''s 
religious  ceremony,  and  concluding,  as  it  were,  with  an  Amen. 

And  now,  having  seen  a  great  mihtary  march  through  a 
friendly  countr}^ ;  the  pomps  and  festivities  of  more  than  one 
German  court ;  the  severe  struggle  of  a  hotly  contested  battle, 
and  the  triumph  of  victory,  Mr.  Esmond  beheld  another  part  of 
military  duty :  our  troops  entering  the  enemy's  territory,  and 
putting  all  around  them  to  fire  and  sword ;  burning  farms, 
wasted  fields,  shrieking  women,  slaughtered  sons  and  fathers, 
and  drunken  soldiery,  cursing  and  carousing  in  the  midst  of 
tears,  terror,  and  murder.  Wh}^  does  the  stately  Muse  of 
Histor3%  that  delights  in  describing  the  valor  of  heroes  and  the 
grandeur  of  conquest,  leave  out  these  scenes,  so  brutal,  mean, 
and  degrading,  that  3'et  form  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the 
drama  of  war?  You,  gentlemen  of  England,  who  live  at  home 
at  ease,  and  compliment  j^ourselves  in  the  songs  of  triumph  with 
which  our  chieftains  are  bepraised  —  j^ou  pretty  maidens,  that 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  207 

come  tumbling  down  the  stairs  when  the  fife  and  drum  call  you, 
and  huzzali  for  the  British  Grenadiers  —  do  you  take  account 
that  these  items  go  to  make  up  the  amount  of  the  triumph  you  ad- 
mire, and  form  part  of  the  duties  of  the  heroes  you  fondle  ?  Our 
chief,  whom  England  and  all  Europe,  saving  only  the  French- 
men, worshipped  almost,  had  this  of  the  godlike  in  him,  that  he 
was  impassible  before  victor}',  before  danger,  before  defeat. 
Before  the  greatest  obstacle  or  the  most  trivial  ceremony  ;  before 
a  hundred  thousand  men  drawn  in  battalia,  or  a  peasant  slaugh- 
tered at  the  door  of  his  burning  hovel ;  before  a  carouse  of 
drunken  German  lords,  or  a  monarch's  court  or  a  cottage  table, 
where  his  plans  were  laid,  or  an  enemy's  battery,  vomiting 
flame  and  death,  and  strewing  corpses  round  about  him  ;  —  he 
was  always  cold,  calm,  resolute,  hke  fate.  He  performed  a 
treason  or  a  court-bow,  he  told  a  falsehood  as  black  as  Styx, 
as  easilj'  as  he  paid  a  compliment  or  spoke  about  the  weather. 
He  took  a  mistress,  and  left  her ;  he  betrayed  his  benefactor, 
and  supported  him,  or  would  have  murdered  him,  with  the  same 
calmness  alwaj's,  and  having  no  more  remorse  than  Clotho 
when  she  weaves  the  thread,  or  Lachesis  when  she  cuts  it.  In 
the  hour  of  battle  I  have  heard  the  Prince  of  Savoy's  officers 
sa}',  the  Prince  became  possessed  with  a  sort  of  warlike  fur}^ ; 
his  eyes  lighted  up ;  he  rushed  hither  and  thither,  raging ;  he 
shrieked  curses  and  encouragement,  yeUing  and  harking  his 
blood}'  war-dogs  on,  and  himself  alwaj's  at  the  first  of  tlie  hunt. 
Our  Duke  was  as  calm  at  the  mouth  of  the  cannon  as  at  the 
door  of  a  drawing-room.  Perhaps  he  could  not  have  been  the 
great  man  he  was,  had  he  had  a  heart  either  for  love  or  hatred, 
or  pity  or  fear,  or  regret  or  remorse.  He  achieved  the  highest 
deed  of  daring,  or  deepest  calculation  of  thought,  as  he  per- 
formed the  very  meanest  action  of  which  a  man  is  capable ; 
told  a  lie,  or  cheated  a  fond  woman,  or  robbed  a  poor  beggar 
of  a  halfpenny,  with  a  like  awful  serenity  and  equal  capacity  of 
the  highest  and  lowest  acts  of  our  nature. 

His  qualities  were  pretty  well  known  in  the  arm}^  where 
there  w^ere  parties  of  all  politics,  and  of  plenty  of  shrewdness 
and  wit ;  but  there  existed  such  a  perfect  confidence  in  him,  as 
the  first  captain  of  the  world,  and  such  a  faith  and  admiration 
in  his  prodigious  genius  and  fortune,  that  the  ver}-  men  whom 
he  notoriously  cheated  of  their  pay,  the  chiefs  whom  he  used 
and  injured — (for  he  used  all  men,  great  and  small,  that  came 
near  him,  as  his  instruments  alike,  and  took  something  of 
theirs,  either  some  quality  or  some  property  —  the  blood  of  a 
soldier,  it  might  be,  or  a  jewelled  hat,  or  a  hundred  thousand 


208  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

crowns  from  a  king,  or  a  portion  out  of  a  starving  sentinel's 
three-farthings  ;  or  (when  he  was  3'oung)  a  kiss  from  a  woman, 
and  tlie  gokl  chain  off  her  neck,  taking  all  he  could  from  woman 
or  man,  and  having,  as  I  have  said,  this  of  the  godlike  in  him, 
that  he  could  see  a  hero  perish  or  a  sparrow  fall,  with  the  same 
amount  of  sympathy  for  either.  Not  that  he  had  no  tears  ;  he 
could  always  order  up  this  reserve  at  the  proper  moment  to 
battle  ;  he  could  draw  upon  tears  or  smiles  alike,  and  when- 
ever need  was  for  using  this  cheap  coin.  He  would  cringe  to  a 
shoeblack,  as  he  would  flatter  a  minister  or  a  monarch ;  be 
haughty,  be  humble,  threaten,  repent,  weep,  grasp  3'our  hand, 
(or  stab  you  whenever  he  saw  occasion)  —  but  3'et  those  of  the 
army,  who  knew  him  best  and  had  suffered  most  from  him, 
admired  him  most  of  all :  and  as  he  rode  along  the  lines  to 
battle  or  galloped  up  in  the  nick  of  time  to  a  battalion  reehng 
from  before  the  enemy's  charge  or  shot,  the  fainting  men  and 
officers  got  new  courage  as  they  saw  the  splendid  calm  of  his 
face,  and  felt  that  his  will  made  them  irresistible. 

After  the  great  victor}^  of  Blenheim  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
army  for  the  Duke,  even  of  his  bitterest  personal  enemies  in  it, 
amounted  to  a  sort  of  rage  —  nay,  the  very  officers  who  cursed 
him  in  their  hearts  were  among  the  most  frantic  to  cheer  him. 
Who  couki  refuse  his  meed  of  admiration  to  such  a  victory  and 
such  a  victor?  Not  he  who  writes  :  a  man  may  profess  to  be 
ever  so  much  a  philosopher ;  but  he  who  fought  on  that  day 
must  feel  a  thrill  of  pride  as  he  recalls  it. 

The  French  right  was  posted  near  to  the  village  of  Blen- 
heim, on  the  Danube,  where  the  Marshal  Tallard's  quarters 
were ;  their  line  extending  througli,  it  ma^'  be  a  league  and  a 
half,  before  Lutzingen  and  up  to  a  woody  hill,  round  the  base 
of  which,  and  acting  against  the  Prince  of  Savoy,  were  forty  of 
his  squadrons. 

Here  was  a  village  that  the  Frenchmen  had  burned,  the 
wood  being,  in  fact,  a  better  shelter  and  easier  of  guard  than 
any  village. 

Before  these  two  villages  and  the  French  lines  ran  a  little 
stream,  not  more  than  two  foot  broad,  through  a  marsh  (that 
was  mostly  dried  up  from  the  heats  of  'the  weather),  and  this 
stream  was  the  only  separation  between  the  two  armies  —  ours 
coming  up  and  ranging  themselves  in  line  of  battle  before  the 
French,  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  so  that  our  line  was 
quite  visible  to  theirs  ;  and  the  whole  of  this  great  plain  was 
black  and  swarming  with  troops  for  hours  before  the  cannon- 
ading began. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  209 

On  one  side  and  the  other  this  cannonading  lasted  many 
hours.  The  French  guns  being  in  position  in  front  of  their 
line,  and  doing  severe  damage  among  our  horse  especiall}^, 
and  on  our  right  wing  of  Imperiahsts  under  the  Prince  of 
Savoy,  who  could  neither  advance  his  artillery  nor  his  lines, 
the  ground  before  him  being  cut  up  by  ditches,  morasses,  and 
\ery  difficult  of  passage  for  the  guns. 

It  was  past  mid-day  when  the  attack  began  on  our  left, 
where  Lord  Cutts  commanded,  the  bravest  and  most  beloved 
officer  in  the  English  army.  And  now,  as  if  to  make  his  expe- 
rience in  war  complete,  our  ^oung  aide-de-camp  having  seen 
two  great  armies  facing  each  other  in  line  of  battle,  and  had 
the  honor  of  riding  with  orders  from  one  end  to  other  of  the 
line,  came  in  for  a  not  uncommon  accompaniment  of  military 
glory,  and  was  knocked  on  the  head,  along  with  many  hundred 
of  brave  fellows,  almost  at  the  very  commencement  of  this 
famous  day  of  Blenheim.  A  little  after  noon,  the  disposition 
for  attack  being  completed  with  much  delay  and  difficulty,  and 
under  a  severe  fire  from  the  enemy's  guns,  that  were  better 
posted  and  more  numerous  than  ours,  a  body  of  English  and 
Hessians,  with  Major-General  Wilkes  commanding  at  the  ex- 
treme left  of  our  line,  marched  upon  Blenheim,  advancing  with 
great  gallantry,  the  Major-General  on  foot,  with  his  officers,  at 
the  head  of  the  column,  and  marching,  with  his  hat  off,  intrep- 
idl}"  in  the  face  of  the  enemy,  who  was  pouring  in  a  tremendous 
fire  from  his  guns  and  musketr}',  to  which  our  people  were  in- 
structed not  to  reply,  except  with  pike  and  ba3'onet  when  they 
reached  the  French  palisades.  To  these  Wilkes  walked  in- 
trepidl3%  and  struck  the  woodwork  with  his  sword  before  our 
people  charged  it.  He  was  shot  down  at  the  instant,  with  his 
colonel,  major,  and  several  officers  ;  and  our  troops  cheering 
and  huzzaing,  and  coming  on,  as  the}'  did,  with  immense  reso- 
lution and  gallantry,  were  nevertheless  stopped  b}'  the  murder- 
ous fire  from  behind  the  enemy's  defences,  and  then  attacked 
in  flank  by  a  furious  charge  of  French  horse  which  swept  out 
of  Blenheim,  and  cut  down  our  men  in  great  numbers.  Three 
fierce  and  desperate  assaults  of  our  foot  were  made  and  re- 
pulsed by  the  enem}' ;  so  that  our  columns  of  foot  were  quite 
shattered,  and  fell  back,  scrambling  over  the  little  rivulet,  which 
we  had  crossed  so  resolutel}'  an  hour  before,  and  pursued  by 
the  French  cavalry,  slaughtering  us  and  cutting  us  downi. 

And  now  the  conquerors  were  met  by  a  furious  charge  of 
English  horse  under  Esmond's  general.  General  Lumle3%  behind 
whose  squadrons  the  flying  foot  found  refuge,  and  formed  again, 

14 


210  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOI!TD. 

whilst  Lumley  drove  back  the  French  horse,  charging  up  to  the 
village  of  Blenheim  and  the  palisades  where  Wilkes,  and  many 
hundred  more  gallant  Englishmen,  lay  in  slaughtered  heaps. 
Beyond  this  moment,  and  of  this  famous  victory,  Mr.  Esmond 
knows  nothing ;  for  a  shot  brought  down  his  horse  and  our 
young  gentleman  on  it,  who  fell  crushed  and  stunned  under  the 
animal,  and  came  to  his  senses  he  knows  not  how  long  after, 
onl}'  to  lose  them  again  from  pain  and  loss  of  blood.  A  dim 
sense,  as  of  people  groaning  round  about  him,  a  wild  incoher- 
ent thought  or  two  for  her  who  occupied  so  much  of  his  heart 
now,  and  that  here  his  career,  and  his  hopes,  and  misfortunes 
were  ended,  he  remembers  in  the  course  of  these  hours.  When 
he  woke  up,  it  was  with  a  pang  of  extreme  pain,  his  breast- 
plate was  taken  off,  his  servant  was  holding  his  liead  up,  the 
good  and  faithful  lad  of  Hampshire  *  was  blubbering  over  his 
master,  whom  he  found  and  had  thought  dead,  and  a  surgeon 
was  probing  a  wound  in  the  shoulder,  which  he  must  have  got 
at  the  same  moment  when  his  horse  was  shot  and  fell  over  him. 
The  battle  was  over  at  this  end  of  the  field,  by  this  time :  the 
village  was  in  possession  of  the  English,  its  brave  defenders 
prisoners,  or  fled,  or  drowned,  man}'  of  them,  in  the  neighbor- 
ing waters  of  Donau.  But  for  honest  Lock  wood's  faithful 
search  after  his  master,  there  had  no  doubt  been  an  end  of 
Esmond  here,  and  of  this  his  story.  The  marauders  were  out 
rifling  the  bodies  as  they  la}'  on  the  field,  and  Jack  had  brained 
one  of  these  gentr}^  with  the  club-end  of  his  musket,  who  had 
eased  Esmond  of  his  hat  and  periwig,  his  purse,  and  fine  silver- 
mounted  pistols  which  the  Dowager  gave  him,  and  was  fum- 
bling in  his  pockets  for  further  treasure,  when  Jack  Lockwood 
came  up  and  put  an  end  to  the  scoundrel's  triumph. 

Hospitals  for  our  wounded  were  established  at  Blenheim, 
and  here  for  several  weeks  Esmond  lay  in  very  great  danger 
of  his  life  ;  the  wound  was  not  very  great  from  which  he  suf- 
fered, and  the  ball  extracted  by  the  surgeon  on  the  spot  where 
our  young  gentleman  received  it ;  but  a  fever  set  in  next 
day,  as  he  was  lying  in  hospital,  and  that  almost  carried  him 
awa}'.  Jack  Lockwood  said  he  talked  in  the  wildest  manner 
during  his  delirium  ;  that  he  called  himself  the  Marquis  of  Es- 
mond, and  seizing  one  of  the  surgeon's  assistants  who  came  to 
dress  his  wounds,  swore  that  he  was  Madam  Beatrix,  and  that 
he  would  make  her  a  duchess  if  she  would  but  say  yes.  He 
was  passing  the  days  in  these  crazy  fancies,  and  vana  somnia, 

*  My  mistress,  before  I  went  this  campaign,  sent  me  John  Lockwood 
out  of  Walcote,  who  hath  ever  since  remained  with  me.  —  H,  E. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND.  211 

whilst  the  army  was  singing  "  Te  Deiim  "  for  the  victory,  and 
those  famous  festivities  were  taking  place  at  which  our  Duke, 
now  made  a  Prince  of  the  Empire,  was  entertained  b}^  the 
King  of  the  Romans  and  his  nobility.  His  Grace  went  home 
by  Berlin  and  Hanover,  and  Esmond  lost  the  festivities  which 
took  place  at  those  cities,  and  which  his  general  shared  in 
company  of  the  other  general  officers  who  travelled  with  our 
great  captain.  AYhen  he  could  move,  it  was  by  the  Duke  of 
Wiirtemberg's  cit}'  of  Stuttgard  that  he  made  his  way-  home- 
wards, revisiting  Heidelberg  again,  whence  he  went  to  Man- 
heim,  and  hence  had  a  tedious  but  eas}'  water  journey  down 
the  river  of  Rhine,  which  he  had  thought  a  delightful  and 
beautiful  voyage  indeed,  but  that  his  heart  was  longing  for 
home,  and  something  far  more  beautiful  and  delightful. 

As  bright  and  welcome  as  the  eyes  almost  of  his  mistress 
shone  the  lights  of  Harwich,  as  the  packet  came  in  from  Hol- 
land. It  was  not  man}'  hours  ere  he,  Esmond,  was  in  London, 
of  that  you  may  be  sure,  and  received  with  open  arras  by  the 
old  Dowager  of  Chelsey,  who  vowed,  in  her  jargon  of  French 
and  English,  that  he  had  the  air  noble ^  that  his  pallor  embel- 
lished him,  that  he  was  an  Amadis  and  deserved  a  Gloriana ; 
and  oh  !  flames  and  darts  !  what  was  his  jo}'  at  hearing  that  his 
mistress  was  come  into  waiting,  and  was  now  with  her  Majesty 
at  Kensington !  Although  Mr.  Esmond  had  told  Jack  Lock- 
wood  to  get  horses  'and  they  would  ride  for  Winchester  that 
night,  when  he  heard  this  news  he  countermanded  the  horses 
at  once ;  his  business  lay  no  longer  in  Hants ;  all  his  hope 
and  desire  lay  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  him  in  Kensington 
Park  wall.  Poor  Harry  had  never  looked  in  the  glass  before 
so  eagerly  to  see  whether  he  had  the  bd  air^  and  his  paleness 
reallj'  did  become  him  ;  he  never  took  such  pains  about  the 
curl  of  his  periwig,  and  the  taste  of  his  embroider}^  and  point- 
lace,  as  now,  before  Mr.  Amadis  presented  himself  to  Madam 
Gloriana.  Was  the  fire  of  the  French  lines  half  so  murderous 
as  the  killing  glances  from  her  ladyship's  eyes  ?  Oh  !  darts  and 
raptures,  how  beautiful  were  the}' ! 

And  as,  before  the  blazing  sun  of  morning,  the  moon  fades 
away  in  the  sk}'  almost  invisible,  Esmond  thought,  with  a  blush 
perhaps,  of  another  sweet  pale  face,  sad  and  faint,  and  fading 
out  of  sight,  with  its  sweet  fond  gaze  of  affection  ;  such  a  last 
look  it  seemed  to  cast  as  Eurydice  might  have  given,  yearning 
after  her  lover,  when  Fate  and  Pluto  summoned  her,  and  she 
passed  away  into  the  shades. 


212  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 


CHAPTER  X. 

AN   OLD    STORY   ABOUT   A   FOOL    AND   A   WOMAW. 

Ant  taste  for  pleasure  which  Esmond  had  (and  he  liked  to 
desipere  in  loco^  neither  more  nor  less  than  most  3^oung  men  of 
his  age)  he  could  now  gratify  to  the  utmost  extent,  and  in  the 
best  compan}"  which  the  town  afforded.  When  the  army  went 
into  winter  quarters  abroad,  those  of  the  officers  who  had  in- 
terest or  money  easil}*  got  leave  of  absence,  and  found  it  much 
pleasanter  to  spend  their  time  in  Pall  Mall  and  H3'de  Park, 
than  to  pass  the  winter  away  behind  the  fortifications  of  the 
dreary  old  Flanders  towns,  where  the  English  troops  were 
gathered.  Y^achts  and  packets  passed  daily  between  the  Dutch 
and  Flemish  ports  and  Harwich ;  the  roads  thence  to  London 
and  the  great  inns  were  crowded  with  army  gentlemen ;  the 
taverns  and  ordinaries  of  the  town  swarmed  with  red-coats  ; 
and  our  great  Duke's  levees  at  St.  James's  were  as  thronged 
as  the}^  had  been  at  Ghent  and  Brussels,  where  we  treated  him, 
and  he  us,  with  the  grandeur  and  ceremony  of  a  sovereign. 
Though  Esmond  had  been  appointed  to  a  lieutenancy  in  the 
Fusileer  regiment,  of  which  that  celebrated  officer.  Brigadier 
John  Richmond  Webb,  was  colonel,  he  had  never  joined  the 
regiment,  nor  been  introduced  to  its  excellent  commander, 
though  they  had  made  the  same  campaign  together,  and  been 
engaged  in  the  same  battle.  But  being  aide-de-camp  to  General 
Lumley,  who  commanded  the  division  of  horse,  and  the  army 
marching  to  its  point  of  destination  on  the  Danube  by  different 
routes,  Esmond  had  not  fallen  in,  as  yet,  with  his  commander 
and  future  comrades  of  the  fort;  and  it  was  in  London,  in 
Golden  Square,  where  Major-General  Webb  lodged,  that  Cap- 
tain Esmond  had  the  honor  of  first  paying  his  respects  to  his 
friend,  patron,  and  commander  of  after  days. 

Those  who  remember  this  brilliant  and  accomplished  gen- 
tleman may  recollect  his  character,  upon  which  he  prided 
himself,  I  think,  not  a  little,  of  being  the  handsomest  man 
in  the  army ;  a  poet  who  writ  a  dull  copy  of  verses  upon  the 
battle  of  Oudenarde  three  years  after,  describing  Webb, 
says : — 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  213 

"  To  noble  danger  Webb  conducts  the  way, 
His  great  example  all  his  troops  obey ; 
Before  the  front  the  general  sternly  rides. 
With  such  an  air  as  Mars  to  battle  strides : 
Propitious  heaven  must  sure  a  hero  save, 
Like  Paris  handsome,  and  like  Hector  brave.*' 

Mr.  Webb  thought  these  verses  quite  as  fine  as  Mr.  Addison's 
on  the  Blenheim  Campaign,  and,  indeed,  to  be  Hector  a  la  mode 
de  Paris,  was  part  of  this  gallant  gentleman's  ambition.  It 
would  have  been  difficult  to  find  an  officer  in  the  whole  army, 
or  amongst  the  splendid  courtiers  and  cavaliers  of  the  Maison 
du  Roy,  that  fought  under  Vendosme  and  Villeroy  in  the  army 
opposed  to  ours,  who  was  a  more  accomplished  soldier  and 
perfect  gentleman,  and  either  braver  or  better-looking.  And 
if  Mr.  Webb  believed  of  himself  what  the  world  said  of  him, 
and  was  deeply  convinced  of  his  own  indisputable  genius, 
beauty,  and  valor,  who  has  a  right  to  quarrel  with  him  very 
much?  This  self-content  of  his  kept  him  in  general  good- 
humor,  of  which  his  friends  and  dependants  got  the  benefit. 

He  came  of  a  very  ancient  Wiltshire  family,  which  he  re- 
spected above  all  families  in  the  world :  he  could  prove  a  lineal 
descent  from  King  Edward  the  First,  and  his  first  ancestor, 
Roaldus  de  Richmond,  rode  by  William  the  Conqueror's  side 
on  Hastings  field.  "We  were  gentlemen,  Esmond,"  he  used 
to  say,  "  when  the  Churchills  were  horse-boys."  He  was  aver}' 
tall  man,  standing  in  his  pumps  six  feet  three  inches  (in  his 
great  jack-boots,  with  his  tall  fair  periwig,  and  hat  and  feather, 
he  could  not  have  been  less  than  eight  feet  high).  "  I  am  taller 
than  Churchill,"  he  would  say,  surveying  himself  in  the  glass, 
"  and  I  am  a  better  made  man ;  and  if  the  women  won't  like 
a  man  that  hasn't  a  wart  on  his  nose,  faith,  I  can't  help  myself, 
and  Churchill  has  the  better  of  me  there."  Indeed,  he  was 
alwa3's  measuring  himself  with  the  Duke,  and  always  asking 
his  friends  to  measure  them.  And  talking  in  this  frank  way,  as 
he  would  do,  over  his  cups,  wags  would  laugh  and  encourage 
him ;  friends  would  be  sorry  for  him  ;  schemers  and  flatterers 
would  egg  him  on,  and  tale-bearers  carry  the  stories  to  head- 
quarters, and  widen  the  difference  which  alread}^  existed  there, 
between  the  great  captain  and  one  of  the  ablest  and  bravest 
lieutenants  he  ever  had. 

His  rancor  against  the  Duke  was  so  apparent,  that  one  saw 
it  in  the  first  half-hour's  conversation  with  General  Webb  ;  and 
his  lady,  who  adored  her  General,  and  thought  him  a  hundred 
times  taller,  handsomer,  and  braver  than  a  prodigal  nature  had 


214  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

made  him,  hated  the  great  Duke  with  such  an  intensity  as  it 
becomes  faithful  wives  to  feel  against  their  husbands'  enemies. 
Not  that  my  Lord  Duke  was  so  yet ;  Mr.  Webb  had  said  a 
thousand  things  against  him,  which  his  superior  had  pardoned ; 
and  his  Grace,  whose  spies  were  everywhere,  liad  heard  a  thou- 
sand things  more  that  Webb  had  never  said.  But  it  cost  this 
great  man  no  pains  to  pardon ;  and  he  passed  over  an  injury 
or  a  benefit  alike  easily. 

Should  any  child  of  mine  take  the  pains  to  read  these  his 
ancestor's  memoirs,  I  would  not  have  him  judge  of  the  great 
Duke  *  by  what  a  contemporary  has  written  of  him.  No  man 
hath  been  so  immensely  lauded  and  decried  as  this  great  states- 
man and  warrior ;  as,  indeed,  no  man  ever  deserved  better  the 
very  greatest  praise  and  the  strongest  censure.  If  the  present 
writer  joins  with  the  latter  faction,  ver}^  likely  a  private  pique 
of  his  own  may  be  the  cause  of  his  ill-feeling. 

On  presenting  himself  at  the  Commander-in-Chief's  levee, 
his  Grace  had  not  the  least  remembrance  of  General  Lumley's 
aide-de-camp,  and  though  he  knew  Esmond's  famil}'  perfectly 
well,  having  served  with  both  lords  (m}-  Lord  Francis  and  the 
Viscount  Esmond's  father)  in  Flanders,  and  in  the  Duke  of 
York's  Guard,  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  who  was  friendly  and 
serviceable  to  the  (so-styled)  legitimate  representatives  of  the 
Viscount  Castlewood,  took  no  sort  of  notice  of  the  poor  lieu- 
tenant who  bore  their  name.  A  word  of  kindness  or  acknowl- 
edgment, or  a  single  glance  of  approbation,  might  have  changed 
Esmond's  opinion  of  the  great  man  ;  and  instead  of  a  satire, 
which  his  pen  cannot  help  writing,  who  knows  but  that  the 
humble  historian  might  have  taken  the  other  side  of  panegjTic? 
We  have  but  to  change  the  point  of  view,  and  the  greatest 
action  looks  mean  ;  as  we  turn  the  perspective-glass,  and  a 
giant  appears  a  pigm}^  You  may  describe,  but  who  can  tell 
whether  your  sight  is  clear  or  not,  or  3^our  means  of  information 
accurate  ?  Had  the  great  man  said  but  a  word  of  kindness  to 
the  small  one  (as  he  would  have  stepped  out  of  his  gilt  chariot 
to  shake  hands  with  Lazarus  in  rags  and  sores,  if  he  thought 
Lazarus  could  have  been  of  any  service  to  him),  no  doubt 
Esmond  would  have  fought  for  him  with  pen  and  sword  to  the 
utmost  of  his  might ;  but  my  lord  the  lion  did  not  want  master 
mouse  at  this  moment,  and  so  Muscipulus  went  off  and  nibbled 
in  opposition. 

*  This  passage  in  the  Memoirs  of  Esmond  is  written  on  a  leaf  inserted 
into  the  MS.  book,  and  dated  1744,  probably  after  he  had  heard  of  the 
Duchess's  death. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  215 

So  it  was,  however,  that  a  3^oung  gentleman,  who,  in  the 
eyes  of  his  fomily,  and  in  his  own,  doubtless,  was  looked  upon 
as  a  consummate  hero,  found  that  the  great  hero  of  the  day 
took  no  more  notice  of  him  than  of  the  smallest  drummer  in  his 
Grace's  army.  The  Dowager  at  Chelsey  was  furious  against 
this  neglect  of  her  family,  and  had  a  great  battle  with  Lady 
Marlborough  (as  Lady  Castlewood  insisted  on  calhng  the 
Duchess).  Her  Grace  was  now  Mistress  of  the  Robes  to  her 
Majesty,  and  one  of  the  greatest  personages  in  this  kingdom, 
as  her  husband  was  in  all  Europe,  and  the  battle  between  the 
two  ladies  took  place  in  the  Queen's  drawing-room. 

The  Duchess,  in  reply  to  my  aunt's  eager  clamor,  said 
haughtily,  that  she  had  done  her  best  for  the  legitimate  branch 
of  the  Esmonds,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  provide  for  the 
bastard  brats  of  the  famiij'. 

"  Bastards  !  "  says  the  Viscountess,  in  a  fur3\  "  There  p.re 
bastards  among  the  Churchills,  as  your  Grace  knows,  and  the 
Duke  of  Berwick  is  provided  for  weh  enough." 

"  Madam,"  says  the  Duchess,  "  you  know  whose  fault  it  is 
that  there  are  no  such  dukes  in  the  Esmond  familj'  too,  and 
how  that  little  scheme  of  a  certain  ladj^  miscarried." 

Esmond's  friend,  Dick  Steele,  who  was  in  waiting  on  the 
Prince,  heard  the  controversy  between  the  ladies  at  court. 
"  And  faith,"  says  Dick,  "  I  think,  Harrj^,  thy  kinswoman  had 
the  worst  of  it." 

He  could  not  keep  the  story  quiet ;  'twas  all  over  the  coffee- 
houses ere  night ;  it  was  printed  in  a  News  Letter  before  a 
month  was  over,  and  "  The  reply  of  her  Grace  the  Duchess  of 
M-rlb-r-gh  to  a  Popish  Lady  of  the  Court,  once  a  favorite 
of  the  late  K —  J-m-s,"  was  printed  in  half  a  dozen  places, 
with  a  note  stating  that  ''this  duchess,  when  the  head  of  this 
lady's  family  came  by  his  death  lately  in  a  fatal  duel,  never 
rested  until  she  got  a  pension  for  the  orphan  heir,  and  widow, 
from  her  Majesty's  bount3\"  The  squabble  did  not  advance 
poor  Esmond's  promotion  much,  and  indeed  made  him  so 
ashamed  of  himself  that  he  dared  not  show  his  face  at  the 
Commander-in-Chiefs  levees  again. 

During  those  eighteen  months  which  had  passed  since 
Esmond  saw  his  dear  mistress,  her  good  father,  the  old  Dean, 
quitted  this  life,  firm  in  his  principles  to  the  very  last,  and 
enjoining  his  family  always  to  remember  that  the  Queen's 
brother.  King  James  the  Third,  was  their  rightful  sover- 
eign. He  made  a  very  edifying  end,  as  his  daughter  told 
Esmond,  and  not  a  little  to  her  surprise,  after  his  death  (for 


216  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

he  had  lived  alwa3^s  very  poorlj^)  my  lady  found  that  her  father 
had  left  no  less  a  sum  than  3,000^.  behmd  him,  which  he 
bequeathed  to  her. 

With  this  little  fortune  Lady  Castlewood  was  enabled,  when 
her  daughter's  turn  at  Court  came,  to  come  to  London,  where 
she  took  a  small  genteel  house  at  Kensington,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Court,  bringing  her  children  with  her,  and  here  it 
was  that  Esmond  found  his  friends. 

As  for  the  3'oung  lord,  his  university  career  had  ended  rather 
abruptly.  Honest  Tusher,  his  governor,  had  found  mj^  3'oung 
gentleman  quite  ungovernable.  My  lord  worried  his  life  away 
with  tricks  ;  and  broke  out,  as  home-bred  lads  will,  into  a 
hundred  youthful  extravagances,  so  that  Dr.  Bentley,  the  new 
master  of  Trinity,  thought  fit  to  write  to  the  Viscountess 
Castlewood,  my  lord's  mother,  and  beg  her  to  remove  the 
young  nobleman  from  a  college  where  he  declined  to  learn, 
and  where  he  only  did  harm  by  his  rigtous  e:^ample.  Indeed, 
I  believe  he  nearly  set  fire  to  Nevil's  Court,  that  beautiful  new 
quadrangle  of  our  college,  which  Sir  Christopher  Wren  had 
lately  built.  He  knocked  down  a  proctor's  man  that  wanted  to 
arrest  him  in  a  midnight  prank ;  he  gave  a  dinner-party  on  the 
Prince  of  Wales's  birthdaj',  which  was  within  a  fortnight  of  his 
own,  and  the  twenty  young  gentlemen  then  present  sallied  out 
after  their  wine,  having  toasted  King  James's  health  with  open 
windows,  and  sung  ca\^alier  songs,  and  shouted  "  God  save 
the  King  !  "  in  the  great  court,  so  that  the  master  came  out  of 
his  lodge  at  midnight,  and  dissipated  the  riotous  assembly. 

This  was  my  lord's  crowning  freak,  and  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Tusher,  domestic  chaplain  to  the  Right  Honorable  the  Lord 
Viscount  Castlewood,  finding  his  pra3'ers  and  sermons  of  no 
earthl}^  avail  to  his  lordship,  gave  up  his  duties  of  governor ; 
went  and  married  his  brewer's  widow  at  Southampton,  and 
took  her  and  her  money  to  his  parsonage  house  at  Castlewood. 

M}'  lad}'  could  not  be  angry  with  her  son  for  drinking  King 
James's  health,  being  herself  a  loyal  Tor}^,  as  all  the  Castle- 
wood family  were,  and  acquiesced  with  a  sigh,  knowing,  per- 
haps, that  her  refusal  would  be  of  no  avail  to  the  .young  lord's 
desire  for  a  military  life.  She  would  have  liked  him  to  be  in 
Mr.  Esmond's  regiment,  hoping  that  Harry  might  act  as  a 
guardian  and  adviser  to  his  waj^ward  young  kinsman  ;  but  my 
young  lord  would  hear  of  nothing  but  the  Guards,  and  a  com- 
mission was  got  for  him  in  the  Duke  of  Ormond's  regiment ; 
so  Esmond  found  my  lord,  ensign  and  lieutenant,  when  he 
returned  from  Germany  after  the  Blenheim  campaign. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  217 

The  effect  produced  by  both  Lady  Castlewood's  children 
when  they  appeared  in  public  was  extraordinary,  and  the  whole 
town  speedily  rang  with  their  fame :  such  a  beaatiful  couple, 
it  was  declared,  never  had  been  seen  ;  the  young  maid  of  honor 
was  toasted  at  every  table  and  tavern,  and  as  for  my  young 
lord,  his  good  looks  were  even  more  admired  than  his  sister's. 
A  hundred  songs  were  written  about  the  pair,  and  as  the 
fashion  of  that  day  was,  my  young  lord  was  praised  in  these 
Anacreontics  as  warmly  as  Bathyllus.  You  ma}'  be  sure  that 
he  accepted  very  complacently  the  town's  opinion  of  him,  and 
acquiesced  with  that  frankness  and  charming  good-humor  he 
always  showed  in  the  idea  that  he  was  the  prettiest  fellow  in 
all  London. 

The  old  Dowager  at  Chelsey,  though  she  could  never  be  got 
to  acknowledge  that  Mistress  Beatrix  was  an}"  beauty  at  all, 
(in  which  opinion,  as  it  may  be  imagined,  a  vast  number  of  the 
ladies  agreed  with  her),  yet,  on  the  very  first  sight  of  young 
Castlewood,  she  owned  she  fell  in  love  with  him  \  and  Henry 
Esmond,  on  his  return  to  Chelsey,  found  himself  quite  super- 
seded in  her  favor  by  her  younger  kinsman.  The  feat  of 
drinking  the  King's  health  at  Cambridge  would  have  won  her 
heart,  she  said,  if  nothing  else  did.  "  How  had  the  dear 
young  fellow  got  such  beauty?"  she  asked.  "Not  from  his 
father  —  certainly  not  from  his  mother.  How  had  he  come  by 
such  noble  manners,  and  the  perfect  bel  air?  That  countrified 
Walcote  widow  could  never  have  taught  him."  Esmond  had 
his  own  opinion  about  the  countrified  Walcote  widow,  who  had 
a  quiet  grace  and  serene  kindness,  that  had  always  seemed  to 
him  the  perfection  of  good  breeding,  though  he  did  not  try  to 
argue  this  point  with  his  aunt.  But  he  could  agree  in  most 
of  the  praises  which  the  enraptured  old  dowager  bestowed 
on  my  Lord  Viscount,  than  whom  he  never  beheld  a  more  fas- 
cinating and  charming  gentleman.  Castlewood  had  not  wit  so 
much  as  enjoyment.  "  The  lad  looks  good  things,"  Mr.  Steele 
used  to  say  ;  "  and  his  laugh  lights  up  a  conversation  as  much 
as  ten  repartees  from  Mr.  Congreve.  I  would  as  soon  sit  over 
a  bottle  with  him  ag>  with  Mr.  Addison ;  and  rather  listen  to 
his  talk  than  hear  Nicolini.  Was  ever  man  so  gracefully  drunk 
as  my  Lord  Castlewood?  I  would  give  anything  to  carry  my 
wine"  (though,  indeed,  Dick  bore  his  very  kindly,  and  plenty 
of  it,  too),  "  like  this  incomparable  young  man.  When  he  is 
sober  he  is  delightful ;  and  when  tipsy,  perfectly  irresistible." 
And  referring  to  his  favorite,  Shakspeare  (who  was  quite  out 
of  fashion  until  Steele  brought  him  back  into  the  mode) ,  Dick 


218  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

compared  Lord  Castlewood  to  Prince  Hal,  and  was  pleased  to 
dub  Esmond  as  ancient  Pistol. 

The  Mistress  of  the  Robes,  the  greatest  lad}^  in  England 
after  the  Queen,  or  even  before  her  Majesty,  as  the  world  said, 
though  she  never  could  be  got  to  sa}-  a  civil  word  to  Beatrix, 
whom  she  had  promoted  to  her  place  as  maid  of  honor,  took 
her  brother  into  instant  favor.  When  3'oung  Castlewood,  in 
his  new  uniform,  and  looking  like  a  prince  out  of  a  fairy  tale, 
went  to  pay  his  duty  to  her  Grace,  she  looked  at  him  for  a 
minute  in  silence,  the  3'oung  man  blushing  and  in  confusion 
before  her,  then  fairly  burst  out  a-crying,  and  kissed  him 
before  her  daughters  and  company.  "  He  was  my  boy's  friend," 
she  said,  through  her  sobs.  "  M}^  Blandford  might  have  been 
like  him."  And  everybod}^  saw,  after  this  mark  of  the  Duchess's 
favor,  that  my  young  lord's  promotion  was  secure,  and  people 
crowded  round  the  favorite's  favorite,  who  became  vainer  and 
gayer,  and  more  good-humored  than  ever. 

Meanwhile  Madam  Beatrix  was  making  her  conquests  on 
her  own  side,  and  amongst  them  was  one  poor  gentleman,  who 
had  been  shot  b\^  her  .young  eyes  two  3'ears  before,  and  had 
never  been  quite  cured  of  that  wound  ;  he  knew,  to  be  sure, 
how  hopeless  any  passion  might  be,  directed  in  that  quarter, 
and  had  taken  that  best,  though  ignoble,  remedium  amoris,  a 
speedy  retreat  from  before  the  charmer,  and  a  long  absence 
from  her ;  and  not  being  dangerousl}^  smitten  in  the  first  in- 
stance, Esmond  pretty  soon  got  the  better  of  his  complaint,  and 
if  he  had  it  still,  did  not  know  he  had  it,  and  bore  it  easily. 
But  when  he  returned  after  Blenheim,  the  3'oung  ladj^  of  six- 
teen, who  had  appeared  the  most  beautiful  object  his  eyes  had 
ever  looked  on  two  ^^ears  back,  was  now  advanced  to  a  perfect 
ripeness  and  perfection  of  beauty,  such  as  instantly'  enthralled 
the  poor  devil,  who  had  already  been  a  fugitive  from  her  charms. 
Then  he  had  seen  her  but  for  two  days,  and  fled  ;  now  he  be- 
held her  day  after  day,  and  when  she  was  at  Court  watched  after 
her ;  when  she  was  at  home,  made  one  of  the  family  party ; 
when  she  went  abroad,  rode  after  her  mother's  chariot ;  when 
she  appeared  in  public  places,  was  in  the  box  near  her,  or  in 
the  pit  looking  at  her ;  when  she  went  to  church  was  sure  to  be 
there,  though  he  might  not  listen  to  the  sermon,  and  be  ready 
to  hand  her  to  her  chair  if  she  deigned  to  accept  of  his  services, 
and  select  him  from  a  score  of  3'Oung  men  who  were  alwa3'S  hang- 
ing round  about  her.  When  she  went  away^  accompanying  her 
Majesty  to  Hampton  Court,  a  darkness  fell  over  London. 
Gods,  what  nights  has  Esmond  passed,  thinking  of  her,  rhym- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  219 

ing  about  her,  talking  about  her  !  His  friend  Dick  Steele  was 
at  this  time  courting  the  young  lady,  Mrs.  Scurlock,  whom  he 
married ;  she  had  a  lodging  in  Kensington  Square,  hard  by  my 
Lady  Castlewood's  house  there.  Dick  and  Harry,  being  on  the 
same  errand,  used  to  meet  constantly  at  Kensington.  They 
were  always  prowling  about  that  place,  or  dismally  walking 
thence,  or  eagerly  running  thither.  They  emptied  scores  of 
bottles  at  the  ''King's  Arms,"  each  man  prating  of  his  love, 
and  allowing  the  other  to  talk  on  condition  that  he  might  have 
his  own  turn  as  a  listener.  Hence  arose  an  intimacy  between 
them,  though  to  all  the  rest  of  their  friends  they  must  have  been 
insufferable.  Esmond's  verses  to  "  Gloriana  at  the  Harpsi- 
chord," to  "  Gloriana's  Nosegay,"  to  "  Gloriana  at  Court,"  ap- 
peared this  year  in  the  Observator.  —  Have  you  never  read 
them  ?  They  were  thought  pretty  poems,  and  attributed  by 
some  to  Mr.  Prior. 

This  passion  did  not  escape  —  how  should  it?  —  the  clear 
eyes  of  Esmond's  mistress  :  he  told  her  all ;  what  will  a  man  not 
do  when  frantic  with  love  ?  To  what  baseness  will  he  not  de- 
mean himself?  What  pangs  will  he  not  make  others  suffer,  so 
that  he  may  ease  his  selfish  heart  of  a  part  of  its  own  pain? 
Da3'  after  day  he  would  seek  his  dear  mistress,  pour  insane 
hopes,  supplications,  rhapsodies,  raptures,  into  her  ear.  She 
listened,  smiled,  consoled,  with  untiring  pity  and  sweetness. 
Esmond  was  the  eldest  of  her  children,  so  she  was  pleased  to 
say ;  and  as  for  her  kindness,  who  ever  had  or  would  look  for 
aught  else  from  one  who  was  an  angel  of  goodness  and  pity  ? 
After  what  has  been  said,  'tis  needless  almost  to  add  that  poor 
Esmond's  suit  was  unsuccessful.  What  was  a  nameless,  penni- 
less lieutenant  to  do,  when  some  of  the  greatest  in  the  land 
were  in  the  field  ?  Esmond  never  so  much  as  thought  of  asking 
permission  to  hope  so  far  above  his  reach  as  he  knew  this  prize 
was  —  and  passed  his  foolish,  useless  life  in  mere  abject  sighs 
and  impotent  longing.  What  nights  of  rage,  what  days  of  tor- 
ment, of  passionate  unfulfilled  desire,  of  sickening  jealousy  can 
he  recall !  Beatrix  thought  no  more  of  him  than  of  the  lackey 
that  followed  her  chair.  His  complaints  did  not  touch  her  in 
the  least ;  his  raptures  rather  fatigued  her ;  she  cared  for  his 
verses  no  more  than  for  Dan  Chaucer's,  who's  dead  these  ever 
so  man}'  hundred  years  ;  she  did  not  hate  him  ;  she  rather  de- 
spised him,  and  just  suffered  him. 

One  day,  after  talking  to  Beatrix's  mother,  his  dear,  fond, 
constant  mistress  —  for  hours  —  for  all  day  long  —  pouring  out 
his  flame  and  his  passion,  his  despair  and  rage,  returning  again 


220  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

and  again  to  the  theme,  pacing  the  room,  tearing  up  the  flowers 
on  the  table,  twisting  and  breaking  into  bits  the  v/ax  out  of  the 
stand-dish,  and  performing  a  hundred  mad  freaks  of  passionate 
follj  ;  seeing  his  mistress  at  last  quite  pale  and  tired  out  with 
sheer  weariness  of  compassion,  and  watching  over  his  fever  for 
the  hundredth  time,  Esmond  seized  up  his  hat,  and  took  his 
leave.  As  he  got  into  Kensington  Square,  a  sense  of  remorse 
came  over  him  for  the  wearisome  pain  he  had  been  inflicting 
Upon  the  dearest  and  kindest  friend  ever  man  had.  He  went 
back  to  the  house,  where  the  servant  still  stood  at  the  open 
door,  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  found  his  mistress  where  he  had 
left  her  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  looking  over  the  fields 
towards  Chelsej.  She  laughed,  wiping  aw^ay  at  the  same  time 
the  tears  which  were  in  her  kind  e3'es  ;  he  flung  himself  down 
on  his  knees,  and  buried  his  head  in  her  lap.  She  had  in  her 
hand  the  stalk  of  one  of  the  flowers,  a  pink,  that  he  had  torn  to 
pieces.  "Oh,  pardon  me,  pardon  me,  my  dearest  and  kind- 
est," he  said  ;  "  I  am  in  hell,  and  you  are  the  angel  that  brings 
me  a  drop  of  water." 

"I  am  5'our  mother,  you  are  my  son,  and  I  love  you 
always,"  she  said,  holding  her  hands  over  him :  and  he  went 
away  comforted  and  humbled  in  mind,  as  he  thought  of  that 
amazing  and  constant  love  and  tenderness  with  which  this  sweet 
lady  ever  blessed  and  pursued  him. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   FAMOUS    MR.    JOSEPH   ADDISON. 

The  gentlemen  ushers  had  a  table  at  Kensington,  and  the 
Guard  a  very  splendid  dinner  daily  at  St.  James's,  at  either  of 
which  ordinaries  Esmond  was  free  to  dine.  Dick  Steele  liked 
the  Guard-table  better  than  his  own  at  the  gentlemen  ushers', 
where  there  was  less  wine  and  more  ceremony ;  and  Esmond 
had  many  a  jolly  afternoon  in  company  of  his  friend,  and  a  hun- 
dred times  at  least  saw  Dick  into  his  chair.  If  there  is  verity 
in  wine,  according  to  the  old  adage,  what  an  amiable-natured 
character  Dick's  must  have  been  !  In  proportion  as  he  took  in 
wine  he  overflowed  with  kindness.  His  talk  was  not  witt}"  so 
much  as  charming.     He  never  said  a  word  that  could  auger 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  221 

anj^bod}^  and  only  became  the  more  benevolent  tLe  more  tipsy 
he  grew.  Many  of  the  wags  derided  the  poor  fellow  in  his  cups, 
and  chose  him  as  a  butt  for  their  satire  :  but  there  was  a  kind- 
ness about  him,  and  a  sweet  plaj^ful  fancy,  that  seemed  to  Es- 
mond far  more  charming  than  the  pointed  talk  of  the  brightest 
wits,  with  their  elaborate  repartees  and  affected  severities.  I 
think  Steele  shone  rather  than  sparkled.  Those  famous  beaux- 
espn'ts  of  the  coffee-houses  (Mr.  Wilham  Congreve,  for  instance, 
when  his  gout  and  his  grandeur  permitted  him  to  come  among 
us)  would  make  many  brilhant  hits  —  half  a  dozen  in  a  night 
sometimes  —  but,  like  sharp-shooters,  w^hen  the}^  had  fired  their 
shot,  they  were  obliged  to  retire  under  cover  till  their  pieces 
were  loaded  again,  and  wait  till  they  got  another  chance  at  their 
enem}' ;  whereas  Dick  never  thought  that  his  bottle  com- 
panion was  a  butt  to  aim  at  —  onl}'  a  friend  to  shake  by  the 
hand.  The  poor  fellow  had  half  the  town  in  his  confidence ; 
ever3'body  knew  everything  about  his  loves  and  his  debts,  his 
creditors  or  his  mistress's  obduracy.  When  Esmond  first  came 
on  to  the  town,  honest  Dick  was  all  flames  and  raptures  for  a 
young  lady,  a  West  India  fortune,  whom  he  married.  In  a 
couple  of  years  the  lady  was  dead,  the  fortune  was  all  but  spent, 
and  the  honest  widower  was  as  eager  in  pursuit  of  a  new  para- 
gon of  beauty,  as  if  he  had  never  courted  and  married  and 
buried  the  last  one. 

Quitting  the  Guard-table  one  Sunday  afternoon,  when  by 
chance  Dick  had  a  sober  fit  upon  him,  he  and  his  friend  were 
making  their  way  down  Germain  Street,  and  Dick  all  of  a  sud- 
den left  his  companion's  arm,  and  ran  after  a  gentleman  who 
was  poring  over  a  folio  volume  at  the  book-shop  near  to  St. 
James's  Church.  He  was  a  fair,  tall  man,  in  a  snuff-colored 
suit,  with  a  plain  sword,  very  sober,  and  almost  shabby  in 
appearance  —  at  least  when  compared  to  Captain  Steele,  who 
loved  to  adorn  his  joll}^  round  person  with  the  finest  of  clothes, 
and  shone  in  scarlet  and  gold  lace.  The  Captain  rushed  up, 
then,  to  the  student  of  the  book-stall,  took  him  in  his  arms, 
hugged  him,  and  would  have  kissed  him  —  for  Dick  was  always 
hugging  and  bussing  his  friends  —  but  the  other  stepped  back 
with  a  flush  on  his  pale  face,  seeming  to  decline  this  public 
manifestation  of  Steele's  regard. 

'^  My  dearest  Joe,  w^here  hast  thou  hidden  thyself  this  age?  " 
cries  the  Captain,  still  holding  both  his  friend's  hands;  "I 
have  been  languishing  for  thee  this  fortnight." 

"A  fortnight  is  not  an  age,  Dick,"  says  the  other,  very 
good-humoredly.      (He    had   light    blue   eyes,   extraordinary 


222  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

bright,  and  a  face  perfectly  regular  and  handsome,  like  a  tinted 
statue.)  ''And  I  have  been  hiding  myself — where  do  you 
think?" 

"  What !  not  across  the  water,  my  dear  Joe?"  says  Steele, 
with  a  look  of  great  alarm  :   "  thou  knowest  I  have  always  —  " 

"  No,"  says  his  friend,  interrupting  him  with  a  smile  :  "we 
are  not  come  to  such  straits  as  that,  Dick.  I  have  been  hiding, 
sir,  at  a  place  where  people  never  think  of  finding  3'ou  —  at  my 
own  lodgings,  whither  I  am  going  to  smoke  a  pipe  now  and 
drink  a  glass  of  sack  :  will  your  honor  come  ?  " 

''  Harry  Esmond,  come  hither,"  cries  out  Dick.  "  Thou 
hast  heard  me  talk  over  and  over  again  of  my  dearest  Joe,  my 
guardian  angel?" 

"  Indeed,"  sa3^s  Mr.  Esmond,  with  a  bow,  "  it  is  not  from 
3'ou  only  that  I  have  learnt  to  admire  Mr.  Addison.  We  loved 
good  poetr^^  at  Cambridge  as  well  as  at  Oxford ;  and  I  have 
some  of  3'ours  b3'  heart,  though  I  have  put  on  a  red  coat  .... 
'  O  qui  canoro  blandius  Orpheo  vocale  ducis  carmen  ; '  shall  I  go 
on,  sir?"  says  Mr.  Esmond,  who,  indeed,  had  read  and  loved 
the  charming  Latin  poems  of  Mr.  Addison,  as  every  scholar  of 
that  time  knew  and  admired  them. 

"This  is  Captain  Esmond  who  was  at  Blenheim,"  sa3^8 
Steele. 

"  Lieutenant  Esmond,"  sa3^s  the  other,  with  a  low  bow,  "  at 
Mr.  Addison's  service." 

"  I  have  heard  of  3'ou,"  says  Mr.  Addison,  with  a  smile  ;  as, 
indeed,  everybod3^  about  town  had  heard  that  unlucky  story 
about  Esmond's  dowager  aunt  and  the  Duchess. 

"  We  were  going  to  the  '  George'  to  take  a  bottle  before 
the  pla3%"  says  Steele  :   "  wilt  thou  be  one,  Joe?" 

Mr.  Addison  said  his  own  lodgings  were  hard  b3%  where  he 
was  still  rich  enough  to  give  a  good  bottle  of  wine  to  his  friends  ; 
and  invited  the  two  gentlemen  to  his  apartment  in  the  Hay- 
market,  whither  we  accordingly  went. 

"  I  shall  get  credit  with  m3^  landlad3%"  says  he,  with  a  smile, 
"  when  she  sees  two  such  fine  gentlemen  as  you  come  up  my 
stair."  And  he  politel3^  made  his  visitors  welcome  to  his  apart- 
ment, which  was  indeed  but  a  shabb3'  one,  though  no  grandee 
of  the  land  could  receive  his  guests  with  a  more  perfect  and 
courtly  grace  than  this  gentleman.  A  frugal  dinner,  consisting 
of  a  slice  of  meat  and  a  penny  loaf,  was  awaiting  the  owner  of 
the  lodgings.  "  My  wine  is  better  than  my  meat,"  sa3"s  Mr. 
Addison;  "  m3^  Lord  Hahfax  sent  me  the  Burgundy."  And 
he  set  a  bottle  and  glasses  before  his  friends,  and  ate  his  simple 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  223 

dinner  in  a  very  few  minutes,  after  which  the  three  fell  to,  and 
began  to  dnnk.  "You  see,"  says  Mr.  Addison,  pointing  to 
his  writing-table,  whereon  was  a  map  of  the  action  at  Hoch- 
stedt,  and  several  other  gazettes  and  pamphlets  relating  to  the 
battle,  "that  I,  too,  am  busy  about  your  affairs.  Captain.  I 
am  engaged  as  a  poetical  gazetteer,  to  say  truth,  and  am 
writing  a  poem  on  the  campaign." 

So  Esmond,  at  the  request  of  his  host,  told  him  what  he 
knew  about  the  famous  battle,  drew  the  river  on  the  table  allquo 
mero^  and  with  the  aid  of  some  bits  of  tobacco-pipe  showed  the 
advance  of  the  left  wing,  where  he  had  been  engaged. 

A  sheet  or  two  of  the  verses  lay  alread}'  on  the  table  beside 
our  bottles  and  glasses,  and  Dick  having  plentifully  refreshed 
himself  from  the  latter,  took  up  the  pages  of  manuscript,  writ 
out  with  scarce  a  blot  or  correction,  in  the  author's  slim,  neat 
handwriting,  and  began  to  read  therefrom  with  great  emphasis 
and  volubilit3\  At  pauses  of  the  verse,  the  enthusiastic  reader 
stopped  and  fired  off  a  great  salvo  of  applause. 

Esmond  smiled  at  the  enthusiasm  of  Addison's  friend. 
"You  are  like  the  German  Burghers,"  says  he,  "and  the 
Princes  on  the  Mozelle :  when  our  army  came  to  a  halt,  they 
alwa3's  sent  a  deputation  to  compliment  the  chief,  and  fired  a 
salute  with  all  their  artillery  from  their  walls." 

"And  drunk  the  great  chiefs  health  afterward,  did  not 
they?"  says  Captain  Steele,  gayl}^  filling  up  a  bumper; — he 
never  was  tardy  at  that  sort  of  acknowledgment  of  a  friend's 
merit. 

"And  the  Duke,  since  3'ou  will  have  me  act  his  Grace's 
part,"  says  Mr.  Addison,  with  a  smile,  and  something  of  a 
blush,  "  pledged  his  friends  in  return.  Most  Serene  Elector  of 
Covent  Garden,  I  drink  to  3'our  Highness's  health,"  and  he 
filled  himself  a  glass.  Joseph  required  scarce  more  pressing 
than  Dick  to  that  sort  of  amusement ;  but  the  wine  never 
seemed  at  all  to  fluster  Mr.  Addison's  brains  ;  it  only  unloosed 
his  tongue  :  w^hereas  Captain  Steele's  head  and  speech  were 
quite  overcome  hy  a  single  bottle. 

No  matter  what  the  verses  were,  and,  to  sa}^  truth,  Mr. 
Esmond  found  some  of  them  more  than  indifferent,  Dick's  en- 
thusiasm for  his  chief  never  faltered,  and  in  ever}^  line  from 
Addison's  pen,  Steele  found  a  master-stroke.  B}^  the  time 
Dick  had  come  to  that  part  of  the  poem,  wherein  the  bard 
describes  as  blandl}^  as  though  he  were  recording  a  dance  at 
the  opera,  or  a  harmless  bout  of  bucolic  cudgelling  at  a  village 
fair,  that  bloody  and  ruthless  part  of  our  campaign,  with  the 


224  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

remembrance  whereof  every  soldier  who  bore  a  part  in  it  must 
sicken  with  shame  —  when  we  were  ordered  to  ravage  and  lay 
waste  the  Elector's  countr}^ ;  and  with  fire  and  murder,  slaugh- 
ter and  crime,  a  great  part  of  his  dominions  was  overrun  ;  when 
Dick  came  to  the  lines  — 

"  In  vengeance  roused  the  soldier  fills  his  hand 
With  sword  and  fire,  and  ravages  the  land, 
In  crackling  flames  a  thousand  harvests  burn, 
A  thousand  villages  to  ashes  turn. 
To  the  thick  woods  the  woolly  flocks  retreat, 
And  mixed  with  bellowing  herds  confusedly  bleat. 
Their  trembling  lords  the  common  shade  partake, 
And  cries  of  infants  found  in  every  brake. 
The  listening  soldier  fixed  in  sorrow  stands, 
Loth  to  obey  his  leader's  just  commands. 
The  leader  grieves,  by  generous  pity  swayed, 
To  see  his  just  commands  so  well  obeyed  ; " 

by  this  time  wine  and  friendship  had  brought  poor  Dick  to  a 
perfectly  maudlin  state,  and  he  hiccupped  out  the  last  line  with 
a  tenderness  that  set  one  of  his  auditors  a-laughing. 

"  I  admire  the  license  of  your  poets,"  saj's  Esmond  to  Mr. 
Addison.  (Dick,  after  reading  of  the  verses,  was  fain  to  go 
off,  insisting  on  kissing  his  two  dear  friends  before  his  depart- 
ure, and  reeling  away  with  his  periwig  over  his  eyes.)  "  I 
admire  your  art :  the  murder  of  the  campaign  is  done  to  militar}^ 
music,  like  a  battle  at  the  opera,  and  the  virgins  shriek  in  har- 
mony, as  our  victorious  grenadiers  march  into  their  villages. 
Do  3'ou  know  what  a  scene  it  was?  "  — (by  this  time,  perhaps, 
the  wine  had  warmed  Mr.  Esmond's  head  too,)  —  "  what  a  tri- 
umph you  are  celebrating?  what  scenes  of  shame  and  horror 
were  enacted,  over  which  the  commander's  genius  presided,  as 
calm  as  though  he  didn't  belong  to  our  sphere?  You  talk  of 
the  '  listening  soldier  fixed  in  sorrow,'  the  'leader's  grief  swayed 
by  generous  pit}^ ; '  to  my  behef  the  leader  cared  no  more  for 
bleating  flocks  than  he  did  for  infants'  cries,  and  many  of  our 
ruffians  butchered  one  or  the  other  with  equal  alacrity-.  I  was 
ashamed  of  my  trade  when  I  saw  those  horrors  perpetrated, 
which  came  under  every  man's  eyes.  You  hew  out  of  your 
polished  verses  a  stately  image  of  smiling  victory  ;  I  tell  you 
*tis  an  uncouth,  distorted,  savage  idol ;  hideous,  blood}-,  and 
barbarous.  The  rites  performed  before  it  are  shocking  to  think 
of.  You  great  poets  should  show  it  as  it  is  —  ugh'  and  horrible, 
not  beautiful  and  serene.  Oh,  sir,  had  you  made  the  campaign, 
believe  me,  you  never  would  have  sung  it  so." 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  225 

During  this  little  outbreak,  Mr.  Addison  was  listening,  smok- 
ing out  of  his  long  pipe,  and  smiling  very  placidly.  "  What 
would  3^ou  have?"  says  he.  "  In  our  polished  daj's,  and  ac- 
cording to  the  rules  of  art,  'tis  imjwssibie  tliat  the  Muse  should 
depict  tortures  or  begrime  her  hands  with  the  horrors  of  war. 
These  are  indicated  rather  than  described  ;  as  in  the  Greek  trage- 
dies, that,  I  dare  say,  3^ou  have  read  (and  sure  there  can  be  no 
more  elegant  specimens  of  composition),  Agamemnon  is  slain, 
or  Medea's  children  destroyed,  away  from  the  scene  ;  —  the  cho- 
rus occupying  the  stage  and  singing  of  the  action  to  pathetic 
music.  Something  of  this  I  attempt,  my  dear  sir,  in  my  hum- 
ble way :  'tis  a  panegyric  I  mean  to  write,  and  not  a  satire. 
Were  I  to  sing  as  you  would  have  me,  the  town  would  tear  the 
poet  in  pieces,  and  burn  his  book  by  the  hands  of  the  common 
hangman.  Do  you  not  use  tobacco?  Of  all  the  weeds  grown 
on  earth,  sure  the  nicotian  is  the  most  soothing  and  salutary. 
We  must  paint  our  great  Duke,"  Mr.  Addison  went  on,  "  not 
as  a  man,  which  no  doubt  he  is,  with  weaknesses  like  the  rest  of 
us,  but  as  a  hero.  'Tis  in  a  triumph,  not  a  battle,  that  your 
humble  servant  is  riding  his  sleek  Pegasus.  We  college  poets 
trot,  3'ou  know,  on  ver}^  easy  nags ;  it  hath  been,  time  out  of 
mind,  part  of  the  poet's  profession  to  celebrate  the  actions  of 
heroes  in  verse,  and  to  sing  the  deeds  which  3'ou  men  of  war 
perform.  I  must  follow  the  rules  of  m}^  art,  and  the  composi- 
tion of  such  a  strain  as  this  must  be  harmonious  and  majestic, 
not  familiar,  or  too  near  the  vulgar  truth.  Si  parva  licet :  if 
Virgil  could  invoke  the  divine  Augustus,  a  humbler  poet  from 
the  banks  of  the  Isis  may  celebrate  a  victory  and  a  conqueror 
of  our  own  nation,  in  whose  triumphs  every  Briton  has  a  share, 
and  whose  glory  and  genius  contributes  to  every  citizen's  indi- 
vidual honor.  When  hath  there  been,  since  our  Henrys'  and 
Edwards'  daj^s,  such  a  great  feat  of  arms  as  that  from  which 
3^ou  3'ourself  have  brought  away  marks  of  distinction?  If  'tis 
in  my  power  to  sing  that  song  worthity,  I  will  do  so,  and  be 
thankful  to  m3"  Muse.  If  I  fail  as  a  poet,  as  a  Briton  at  least 
I  will  show  my  loyalty,  and  fling  up  my  cap  and  huzzah  for  the 
conqueror :  — 

"  '  Rheni  pacator  et  Istri 
Omnis  in  hoc  uno  variis  discordia  cessit 
Ordinibus  ;  laetatur  eques,  plauditque  senator, 
Votaque  patricio  certant  plebeia  favori.'  " 

"  There  were  as  brave  men  on  that  field,"  says  Mr.  Esmond 
(who  never  could  be  made  to  love  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 

15 


226  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

nor  to  forget  those  stories  which  he  used  to  hear  in  his  youth 
regarding  that  great  chiefs  selfishness  and  treaclier}^)  — "  there 
were  men  at  Blenheim  as  good  as  the  leader,  whom  neither 
knights  nor  senators  applauded,  nor  voices  plebeian  or  patrician 
favored,  and  who  lie  there  forgotten,  under  the  clods.  What 
poet  is  there  to  sing  them?  " 

''  To  sing  the  gallant  souls  of  heroes  sent  to  Hades  !  "  sa3^s 
Mr.  Addison,  with  a  smile.  ''Would  you  celebrate  them  all? 
If  I  may  venture  to  question  anything  in  such  an  admirable 
work,  the  catalogue  of  the  ships  in  Homer  hath  alwa3's  appeared 
to  me  as  somewhat  wearisome ;  what  had  the  poem  been,  sup- 
posing the  writer  had  chronicled  the  names  of  captains,  lieuten- 
ants, rank  and  file?  One  of  the  greatest  of  a  great  man's 
qualities  is  success  ;  'tis  the  result  of  all  the  others  ;  'tis  a  latent 
power  in  him  which  compels  the  favor  of  the  gods,  and  subju- 
gates fortune.  Of  all  his  gifts  I  admire  that  one  in  the  great 
Marlborough.  To  be  brave  ?  every  man  is  brave.  But  in  being 
victorious,  as  he  is,  I  fancy  there  is  something  divine.  In  pres- 
ence of  the  occasion,  the  great  soul  of  the  leader  shines  out, 
and  the  god  is  confessed.  Death  itself  respects  him,  and  passes 
by  him  to  lay  others  low.  War  and  carnage  flee  before  him  to 
ravage  other  parts  of  the  field,  as  Hector  from  before  the  divine 
Achilles.  You  say  he  hatli  no  pity ;  no  more  have  the  gods, 
who  are  above  it,  and  superhuman.  The  fainting  battle  gathers 
strength  at  his  aspect ;  and,  wherever  he  rides,  victor}'  charges 
with  him." 

A  couple  of  days  after,  when  Mr.  Esmond  revisited  his 
poetic  friend,  he  found  this  thought,  struck  out  in  the  fervor  of 
conversation,  improved  and  shaped  into  those  famous  lines, 
which  are  in  truth  the  noblest  in  the  poem  of  the  "  Campaign." 
As  the  two  gentlemen  sat  engaged  in  talk,  Mr.  Addison  solacing 
himself  with  his  customarj'  pipe,  the  little  maid-servant  that 
waited  on  his  lodging  came  up,  preceding  a  gentleman  in  fine 
laced  clothes,  that  had  evidently  been  figuring  at  Court  or  a  great 
man's  levee.  The  courtier  coughed  a  little  at  the  smoke  of  the 
pipe,  and  looked  round  the  room  curiously,  which  was  shabby 
enough,  as  was  the  owner  in  his  worn,  snuff'-colored  suit  and 
plain  tie-wig. 

"  How  goes  on  the  magnum  opus,  Mr.  Addison?"  saj's  the 
Court  gentleman  on  looking  down  at  the  papers  that  were  on 
the  table. 

"We  were  but  now  over  it,"  says  Addison  (the  greatest 
courtier  in  the  land  could  not  have  a  more  splendid  politeness, 
or  greater  dignity  of  manner).     "  Here  is  the  plan,"  says  he. 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  227 

^'  on  the  table  *  hac  ibat  Simois,  here  ran  the  little  river  Nebel : 
hie  est  Sigeia  tellus,  here  are  Tallard's  quarters,  at  the  bowl  of 
this  pipe,  at  th^  attack  of  which  Captain  Esmond  was  present. 
I  have  the  honor  to  introduce  him  to  Mr.  Boyle  ;  and  Mr.  Es- 
mond was  but  now  depicting  aliquo  proelia  mixta  mero,  when 
you  came  in."  In  truth,  the  two  gentlemen  had  been  so  en- 
gaged when  the  visitor  arrived,  and  Addison,  in  his  smiling 
way,  speaking  of  Mr.  Webb,  colonel  of  Esmond's  regiment 
(who  commanded  a  brigade  in  the  action,  and  great!}'  distin- 
guished himself  there),  was  lamenting  that  he  could  find  never 
a  suitable  rhj^me  for  Webb,  otherwise  the  brigade  should  have 
had  a  place  in  the  poet's  verses.  "  And  for  3'ou,  you  are  but 
a  lieutenant,"  says  Addison,  "  and  tlie  Muse  can't  occupy  her- 
self  with  any  gentleman  under  the  rank  of  a  field  officer." 

Mr.  Bo34e  was  all  impatient  to  hear,  saying  that  my  Lord 
Treasurer  and  my  Lord  Halifax  were  equallj'  anxious  ;  and 
Addison,  blushing,  began  reading  of  his  verses,  and,  I  suspect, 
knew  their  weal^:  parts  as  well  as  the  most  critical  hearer. 
When  he  came  to  the  lines  describing  the  angel,  that 

"  Inspired  repulsed  battalions  to  engage, 
And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  wliere  to  rage," 

he  read  with  great  animation,  looking  at  Esmond,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "You  know  where  that  simile  came  from  —  from  our 
talk,  and  our  bottle  of  Burgundy,  the  other  day." 

The  poet's  two  hearers  were  caught  with  enthusiasm,  and 
applauded  the  verses  with  all  their  might.  The  gentleman  of 
the  Court  sprang  up  in  great  dehght.  "  Not  a  word  more,  my 
dear  sir,"  saj's  he.  "Trust  me  with  the  papers  —  I'll  defend 
them  with  my  life.  Let  me  read  them  over  to  my  Lord  Treas- 
urer, whom  I  am  appointed  to  see  in  half  an  hour.  I  venture 
to  promise,  the  verses  shall  lose  nothing  by  my  reading,  and 
then,  sir,  we  shall  see  whether  Lord  Halifax  has  a  right  to 
complain  that  his  friend's  pension  is  no  longer  paid."  And 
without  more  ado,  the  courtier  in  lace  seized  the  manuscript 
pages,  placed  them  in  his  breast  with  his  ruffled  hand  over  his 
heart,  executed  a  most  gracious  wave  of  the  hat  with  the  dis- 
engaged hand,  and  smiled  and  bowed  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
an  odor  of  pomander  behind  him. 

"Does  not  the  chamber  look  quite  dark?"  says  Addison, 
surveying  it,  "  after  the  glorious  appearance  and  disappearance 
of  that  gracious  messenger?  Why,  he  illuminated  the  whole 
room.  Your  scarlet,  Mr.  Esmond,  will  bear  any  hght ;  but 
this  threadbare  old  coat  of  mine,  how  very  worn  it  looked  under 


228  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

the  glare  of  that  splendor !  I  wonder  whether  they  will  do  any- 
thing for  me,"  he  continued.  "When  I  came  out  of  Oxford 
into  the  world,  my  patrons  promised  me  great  things  ;  and  you 
see  where  their  promises  have  landed  me,  in  a  lodging  up  two 
pair  of  stairs,  with  a  sixpenny  dinner  from  the  cook's  shop. 
Well,  I  suppose  this  promise  will  go  after  the  others,  and  for- 
tune will  jilt  me,  as  the  jade  has  been  doing  any  time  these 
seven  3'ears.  '  I  puff  the  prostitute  away,' "  says  he,  smiling, 
and  blowing  a  cloud  out  of  his  pipe.  "There  is  no  hardship 
in  poverty,  Esmond,  that  is  not  bearable  ;  no  hardship  even  in 
honest  dependence  that  an  honest  man  may  not  put  up  with. 
I  came  out  of  the  lap  of  Alma  Mater,  puffed  up  with  her  praises 
of  me,  and  thinking  to  make  a  figure  in  the  world  with  the 
parts  and  learning  which  had  got  me  no  small  name  in  our 
college.  The  world  is  the  ocean,  and  Isis  and  Charwell  are 
but  little  drops,  of  which  the  sea  takes  no  account.  My  repu- 
tation ended  a  mile  beyond  Maudlin  Tower  ;  no  one  took  note 
of  me  ;  and  I  learned  this  at  least,  to  bear  up  against  evil  for- 
tune with  a  cheerful  heart.  Friend  Dick  hath  made  a  figure  in 
the  world,  and  has  passed  me  in  the  race  long  ago.  What 
matters  a  little  name  or  a  little  fortune?  There  is  no  fortune 
that  a  philosopher  cannot  endure.  I  have  been  not  unknown 
as  a  scholar,  and  yet  forced  to  live  by  turning  bear-leader,  and 
teaching  a  boy  to  spell.  What  then?  The  life  was  not  pleas- 
ant, but  possible — the  bear  was  bearable.  Should  this  ven- 
ture fail,  I  will  go  back  to  Oxford ;  and  some  day,  when  you 
are  a  general,  3'ou  shall  find  me  a  curate  in  a  cassock  and 
bands,  and  I  shall  welcome  your  honor  to  my  cottage  in  the 
eountr}' ,  and  to  a  mug  of  penny  ale.  'Tis  not  poverty  that's 
the  hardest  to  bear,  or  the  least  happy  lot  in  life,"  sa3's  Mr. 
Addison,  shaking  the  ash  out  of  his  pipe.  "  See,  m}^  pipe  is 
smoked  out.  Shall  we  have  another  bottle?  I  have  still  a 
couple  in  the  cupboard,  and  of  the  right  sort.  No  more?  —  let 
us  go  abroad  and  take  a  turn  on  the  Mall,  or  look  in  at  the 
theatre  and  see  Dick's  comedy.  'Tis  not  a  masterpiece  of  wit ; 
but  Dick  is  a  good  fellow,  though  he  doth  not  set  the  Thames 
on  fire." 

Within  a  month  after  this  day,  Mr.  Addison's  ticket  had 
come  up  a  prodigious  prize  in  the  lotterj^  of  life.  All  the  town 
was  in  an  uproar  of  admiration  of  his  poem,  the  "  Campaign," 
which  Dick  Steele  was  spouting  at  every  coffee-house  in  White- 
hall and  Covent  Garden.  The  wits  on  the  other  side  of  Temple 
Bar  saluted  him  at  once  as  the  greatest  poet  the  world  had  seen 
for  ages  ;  the  people  huzza'ed  for  Marlborough  and  for  Addison, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENEY  ESMOND.  229 

and,  more  than  this,  the  party  in  power  provided  for  the  merito- 
rious poet,  and  Addison  got  the  appointment  of  Commissioner 
of  Excise,  which  the  famous  Mr.  Locke  vacated,  and  rose  from 
this  place  to  other  dignities  and  lionors  ;  his  prosperity  from 
henceforth  to  the  end  of  his  life  being  scarce  ever  interrupted. 
But  I  doubt  whether  he  was  not  happier  in  his  garret  in  the  Hay- 
market,  than  ever  he  was  in  his  splendid  palace  at  Kensington  ; 
and  I  believe  the  fortune  that  came  to  him  in  the  shape  of  the 
countess  his  wife  was  no  better  than  a  shrew  and  a  vixen. 

Gay  as  the  town  was,  'twas  but  a  dreary  place  for  Mr. 
Esmond,  whether  his  charmer  was  in  or  out  of  it,  and  he  was 
glad  when  his  general  gave  him  notice  that  he  was  going  back 
to  his  division  of  the  army  which  lay  in  winter-quarters  at  Bois- 
le-Duc.  His  dear  mistress  bade  him  farewell  with  a  cheerful 
face ;  her  blessing  he  knew  he  had  alwaj^s,  and  wheresoever 
fate  carried  him.  Mistress  Beatrix  was  awa}^  in  attendance 
on  her  Majesty  at  Hampton  Court,  and  kissed  her  fair  finger- 
tips to  him,  b}^  way  of  adieu,  when  he  rode  thither  to  take  his 
leave.  She  received  her  kinsman  in  a  waiting-room,  where 
there  were  half  a  dozen  more  ladies  of  the  Court,  so  that  his 
high-flown  speeches,  had  he  intended  to  make  any  (and  very 
hkely  he  did) ,  were  impossible  ;  and  she  announced  to  her 
friends  that  her  cousin  was  going  to  the  arm}^,  in  as  easy  a 
manner  as  she  would  have  said  he  was  going  to  a  chocolate- 
house.  He  asked  with  a  rather  rueful  face,  if  she  had  any 
orders  for  the  army  ?  and  she  was  pleased  to  say  that  she  would 
like  a  mantle  of  Mechlin  lace.  She  made  him  a  saucy  curtsy 
in  reply  to  his  own  dismal  bow.  She  deigned  to  kiss  her  finger- 
tips from  the  window,  where  she  stood  laughing  with  the  other 
ladies,  and  chanced  to  see  him  as  he  made  his  way  to  the 
"Toy."  The  Dowager  at  Chelsey  was  not  sorry  to  part  with 
him  this  time.  "  Mon  cher,  vous  etes  triste  comme  un  sermon," 
she  did  him  the  honor  to  say  to  him  ;  indeed,  gentlemen  in  his 
condition  are  by  no  means  amusing  companions,  and  besides, 
the  fickle  old  woman  had  now  found  a  much  more  amiable 
favorite,  and  raffoled  for  her  darling  lieutenant  of  the  Guard. 
Frank  remained  behind  for  a  while,  and  did  not  join  the  arm}^ 
till  later,  in  the  suite  of  his  Grace  the  Commander-in-Chief.  His 
dear  mother,  on  the  last  day  before  Esmond  went  awa}^  and 
when  the  three  dined  together,  made  Esmond  promise  to  be- 
friend her  boy,  and  besought  Frank  to  take  the  example  of  his 
kinsman  as  of  a  loyal  gentleman  and  brave  soldier,  so  she  was 
pleased  to  say  ;  and  at  parting,  betraj'ed  not  the  least  sign  of 


230  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

faltering  or  weakness,  though,  God  knows,  that  fond  heart  was 
fearful  enough  when  others  were  concerned,  though  so  resolute 
in  bearing  its  own  pain. 

Esmond's  general  embarked  at  Harwich.  'Twas  a  grand 
sight  to  see  Mr.  Webb  dressed  in  scarlet  on  the  deck,  waving 
his  hat  as  our  yacht  put  off,  and  the  guns  saluted  from  the 
shore.  Harry  did  not  see  his  viscount  again,  until  three 
months  after,  at  Bois-le-Duc,  when  his  Grace  the  Duke  came 
to  take  the  command,  and  Frank  brought  a  budget  of  news 
from  home  :  how  he  had  supped  with  this  actress,  and  got  tired 
of  that ;  how  he  had  got  the  better  of  Mr.  St.  John,  both  over 
the  bottle,  and  with  Mrs.  Mountford,  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre 
(a  veteran  charmer  of  lift}',  with  whom  the  3'oung  scapegrace 
chose  to  fancy  himself  in  love)  ;  how  his  sister  w^as  always  at  her 
tricks,  and  had  jilted  a  young  baron  for  an  old  earl.  "  I  can't 
make  out  Beatrix,"  he  said;  "  she  cares  for  none  of  us  —  she 
only  thinks  about  herself;  she  is  never  happy  unless  she  is 
quarreUing ;  but  as  for  my  mother  —  my  mother,  Harr}^,  is  an 
angel."  Harry  tried  to  impress  on  the  young  fellow  the  neces- 
sity of  doing  everything  in  his  power  to  please  that  angel ;  not 
to  drink  too  much  ;  not  to  go  into  debt ;  not  to  .run  after  the 
pretty  Flemish  girls,  and  so  forth,  as  became  a  senior  speaking 
to  a  lad.  "  But  Lord  bless  thee  !  "  the  boy  said  ;  "  I  may  do 
what  I  like,  and  I  know  she  will  love  me  all  the  same  ;  "  and 
so,  indeed,  he  did  what  he  liked.  Everybody  spoiled  him,  and 
his  grave  kinsman  as  much  as  the  rest. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

I    GET   A    COMPANY   IN   THE    CAMPAIGN    OF    1706. 

On  Whit-Sunday,  the  famous  23rd  of  May,  1706,  my  young 
lord  first  came  under  the  fire  of  the  enemy,  whom  we  found 
posted  in  order  of  battle,  their  lines  extending  three  miles  or 
more,  over  the  high  ground  behind  the  little  Gheet  river,  and 
having  on  his  left  the  little  village  of  Anderkirk  or  Autre-eghse, 
and  on  his  right  Ramillies,  which  has  given  its  name  to  one  of 
the  most  brilUant  and  disastrous  days  of  battle  that  history  ever 
hath  recorded. 

Our  Duke  here  once  more  met  his  old  enemy  of  Blenheim, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  231 

the  Bavarian  Elector  and  the  Marechal  Villeroy,  over  whom  the 
Prince  of  Savoy  had  gained  the  famous  victory  of  Chiari.  What 
Enghshman  or  Frenchman  doth  not  know  the  issue  of  that  day  ? 
Having  chosen  his  own  ground,  having  a  force  superior  to  the 
EngUsh,  and  besides  the  excellent  Spanish  and  Bavarian  troops, 
the  whole  Maison-du-Roy  with  him,  the  most  splendid  body  of 
horse  in  the  world,  — in  an  hour  (and  in  spite  of  the  prodigious 
gallantry  of  the  French  Royal  Household,  who  charged  through 
the  centre  ol^  our  line  and  broke  it,)  this  magnificent  army  of 
Villeroy  was  utterly  routed  by  troops  that  had  been  marching 
for  twelve  hours,  and  by  the  intrepid  skill  of  a  commander,  who 
did,  indeed,  seem  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy  to  be  the  very 
Genius  of  Victory. 

I  think  it  was  more  from  conviction  than  policy,  though  that 
policy  was  surely  the  most  prudent  in  the  world,  that  the  great 
Duke  always  spoke  of  his  victories  with  an  extraordinary  mod- 
est}^, and  as  if  it  was  not  so  much  his  own  admirable  genius 
and  courage  which  achieved  these  amazing  successes,  but  as  if 
he  was  a  special  and  fatal  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Provi- 
dence, that  willed  irresistibly  the  enen\v's  overthrow.  Before 
his  actions  he  always  had  the  church  service  read  solemnl}^,  and 
professed  an  undoubting  belief  that  our  Queen's  arms  were 
blessed  and  our  victor}^  sure.  All  the  letters  which  he  writ 
after  his  battles  show  awe  rather  than  exultation  ;  and  lie  attrib- 
utes the  glory  of  these  achievements,  about  which  I  have  heard 
mere  pettj'  officers  and  men  bragging  with  a  pardonable  vain- 
glor}^  in  nowise  to  his  own  bravery  or  skill,  but  to  the  superin- 
tending protection  of  heaven,  which  he  ever  seemed  to  think 
was  our  especial  ally.  And  our  army  got  to  beheve  so,  and  the 
enemy  learnt  to  think  so  too  ;  for  we  never  entered  into  a  battle 
without  a  perfect  confidence  that  it  was  to  end  in  a  victory ; 
nor  did  the  French,  after  the  issue  of  Blenheim,  and  that  aston- 
ishing triumph  of  Ramillies,  ever  meet  us  without  feeling  that 
the  game  was  lost  before  it  was  begun  to  be  played,  and  that 
our  general's  fortune  was  irresistible.  Here,  as  at  Blenheim, 
the  Duke's  charger  was  shot,  and  'twas  thought  for  a  moment 
he  was  dead.  As  he  mounted  another,  Binfield,  his  master  of 
the  horse,  kneeling  to  hold  his  Grace's  stirrup,  had  his  head 
shot  away  b}-  a  cannon-ball.  A  French  gentleman  of  the  Ro3^al 
Household,  that  was  a  prisoner  with  us,  told  the  writer  that  at 
the  time  of  the  charge  of  the  Household,  when  their  horse  and 
ours  were  mingled,  an  Irish  officer  recognized  the  Prince-Duke, 
and  calling  out —  "  Marlborough,  Marlborough  !  "  fired  his  pis- 
tol at  him  a  hout-portant^  and  that  a  score  more  carbines  and 


232  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

pistols  were  discharged  at  him.  Not  one  touched  him  :  he  rode 
through  the  French  Curiassiers  sword-in-hand,  and  entirely 
unhurt,  and  calm  and  smiling,  rallied  the  German  Horse,  that 
was  reeling  before  the  enem}^  brought  these  and  twent}^  squad- 
rons of  Orkney's  back  upon  them,  and  drove  the  French  across 
the  river,  again  leading  the  charge  himself,  and  defeating  the 
only  dangerous  move  the  French  made  that  day. 

Major-General  Webb  commanded  on  the  left  of  our  line,  and 
had  his  own  regiment  under  the  orders  of  their  beloved  colonel. 
Neither  he  nor  they  belied  their  character  for  gallantry  on  this 
occasion  ;  but  it  was  about  his  dear  young  lord  that  Esmond 
was  anxious,  never  having  sight  of  him  save  once,  in  the  whole 
course  of  the  da3^,  when  he  brought  an  order  from  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief to  Mr.  Webb.  When  our  horse,  having  charged 
round  the  right  flank  of  the  enem}^  by  Overkirk,  had  thrown  him 
into  entire  confusion,  a  general  advance  was  made,  and  our 
whole  line  of  foot,  crossing  the  little  river  and  the  morass, 
ascended  the  high  ground  where  the  French  were  posted,  cheer- 
ing as  they  went,  the  enemy  retreating  before  them.  'Twas  a 
service  of  more  glory  than  danger,  the  French  battalions  never 
waiting  to  exchange  push  of  pike  or  bayonet  with  ours  ;  and 
the  gunners  flying  from  their  pieces,  which  our  line  left  behind 
us  as  they  advanced,  and  the  French  fell  back. 

At  first  it  was  a  retreat  orderly  enough  ;  but  presently  the 
retreat  became  a  rout,  and  a  frightful  slaughter  of  the  French 
ensued  on  this  panic :  so  that  an  army  of  sixty  thousand  men 
was  utterl}'  crushed  and  destroyed  in  the  course  of  a  couple  of 
hours.  It  was  as  if  a  hurricane  had  seized  a  compact  numerous 
fleet,  flung  it  all  to  the  winds,  shattered,  sunk,  and  annihilated 
it :  affiavit  Deus^  et  dissipati  sunt.  The  French  army  of  Flan- 
ders was  gone,  their  artillery,  their  standards,  their  treasure, 
provisions,  and  ammunition  were  all  left  behind  them  :  the  poor 
devils  had  even  fled  without  their  soup-kettles,  which  are  as 
much  the  palladia  of  the  French  infantry  as  of  the  Grand 
Seignior's  Janissaries,  and  round  which  they  rally  even  more 
than  round  their  lilies. 

The  pursuit,  and  a  dreadful  carnage  which  ensued  (for  the 
dregs  of  a  battle,  however  brilliant,  are  ever  a  base  residue  of 
rapine,  cruelty,  and  drunken  plunder,)  was  carried  far  beyond 
the  field  of  Ramillies. 

Honest  Lock  wood,  Esmond's  servant,  no  doubt  wanted  to 
be  among  the  marauders  himself  and  take  his  share  of  the 
booty ;  for  when,  the  action  over,  and  the  troops  got  to  their 
ground  for  the  night,  the  Captain  bade  Lockwood  get  a  horse, 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  233 

he  asked,  with  a  very  rueful  countenance,  whether  his  honor 
would  have  him  come  too  ;  but  his  honor  only  bade  him  go  about 
his  own  business,  and  Jack  hopped  away  quite  delighted  as 
soon  as  he  saw  his  master  mounted.  Esmond  made  his  way, 
and  not  without  danger  and  difficulty,  to  his  Grace's  head- 
quarters, and  found  for  himself  ver}^  quickly  where  the  aide- 
de-camps'  quarters  were,  in  an  out-building  of  a  farm,  where 
several  of  these  gentlemen  were  seated,  drinking  and  singing, 
and  at  supper.  If  he  had  an}'  anxiety  about  his  bo}',  'twas  re- 
lieved at  once.  One  of  the  gentlemen  was  singing  a  song  to  a 
tune  that  Mr.  Farquhar  and  Mr.  Ga}-  both  had  used  in  their 
admirable  comedies,  and  very  popular  in  the  army  of  that  day  ; 
and  after  the  song  came  a  chorus,  "  Over  the  hills  and  far 
away ; "  and  Esmond  heard  Frank's  fresh  voice,  soaring,  as  it 
were,  over  the  songs  of  the  rest  of  the  joung  men  —  a  voice 
that  had  always  a  certain  artless,  indescribable  pathos  with  it, 
and  indeed  which  caused  Mr.  Esmond's  ejes  to  fill  with  tears 
now,  out  of  thankfulness  to  God  the  child  was  safe  and  still 
alive  to  laugh  and  sing. 

When  the  song  was  over  Esmond  entered  the  room,  where 
he  knew  several  of  the  gentlemen  present,  and  there  sat  my 
young  lord,  having  taken  off  his  cuirass,  his  waistcoat  open, 
his  face  flushed,  his  long  yellow  hair  hanging  over  his  shoul- 
ders, drinking  with  the  rest ;  the  youngest,  gayest,  handsomest 
there.  As  soon  as  he  saw  Esmond,  he  clapped  down  his 
glass,  and  running  towards  his  friend,  put  both  his  arms  round 
him  and  embraced  him.  The  other's  voice  trembled  with  joy 
as  he  greeted  the  lad ;  he  had  thought  but  now  as  he  stood 
in  the  court-yard  under  the  clear-shining  moonlight;  "Great 
God  !  what  a  scene  of  murder  is  here  within  a  mile  of  us  ;  what 
hundreds  and  thousands  have  faced  danger  to-day ;  and  here 
are  tliese  lads  singing  over  their  cups,  and  the  same  moon  that 
is  shining  over  yonder  horrid  field  is  looking  down  on  Walcote 
ver}^  likely,  while  my  lady  sits  and  thinks  about  her  boy  that  is 
at  the  war."  As  Esmond  embraced  his  young  pupil  now,  'twas 
with  the  feeling  of  quite  religious  thankfulness  and  an  almost 
paternal  pleasure  that  he  beheld  him. 

Round  his  neck  was  a  star  with  a  striped  ribbon,  that 
was  made  of  small  brilliants  and  might  be  worth  a  hundred 
crowns.  "  Look,"  says  he,  "won't  that  be  a  pretty  present 
for  mother?'' 

"  Who  gave  you  the  Order?"  sa3'S  Harry,  saluting  the  gen- 
tleman :   ' '  did  3^ou  win  it  in  battle  ?  " 

"  I  won  it,"  cried  the  other,  "  with  my  sword  and  my  spear. 


234  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

There  was  a  mousquetaire  that  had  it  round  his  neck  —  such  a 
big  mousquetaire,  as  big  as  General  Webb.  I  called  out  to 
him  to  surrender,  and  that  I'd  give  him  quarter :  he  called  me 
a  petit  polisson  and  fired  his  pistol  at  me,  and  then  sent  it  at  my 
head  with  a  curse.  I  rode  at  him,  sir,  drove  my  sword  right 
under  his  arm-hole,  and  broke  it  in  the  rascal's  bod3\  I  found 
a  purse  in  his  holster  with  sixty-five  Louis  in  it,  and  a  bundle 
of  love-letters,  and  a  flask  of  Hungar}"- water.  Vive  la  guerre! 
there  are  the  ten  pieces  you  lent  me.  I  should  like  to  have  a 
fight  every  day  ;  "  and  he  pulled  at  his  little  moustache  and  bade 
a  servant  bring  a  supper  to  Captain  Esmond. 

Harry  fell  to  with  a  very  good  appetite  ;  he  had  tasted  noth- 
ing since  twenty  hours  ago,  at  early  dawn.  Master  Grandson, 
who  read  this,  do  you  look  for  the  history  of  battles  and  sieges? 
Go,  find  them  in  the  proper  books  ;  this  is  onl}'  the  storj^  of 
your  grandfather  and  his  family.  Far  more  pleasant  to  him 
than  the  victory- ,  though  for  that  too  he  maj'  say  meminisse 
juvat^  it  was  to  find  that  the  day  was  over,  and  his  dear  young 
Castlewood  was  unhurt. 

And  would  jon^  sirrah,  wish  to  know  how  it  was  that  a 
sedate  Captain  of  Foot,  a  studious  and  rather  solitar}^  bachelor 
of  eight  or  nine  and  twenty  years  of  age,  who  did  not  care  very 
much  for  the  jollities  which  his  comrades  engaged  in,  and  was 
never  known  to  lose  his  heart  in  any  garrison-town  —  should 
you  wish  to  know  wh}^  such  a  man  had  so  prodigious  a  tender- 
ness, and  tended  so  fondly  a  bo}^  of  eighteen,  wait,  my  good 
friend,  until  thou  art  in  love  with  thy  schoolfellow's  sister,  and 
then  see  how  might}^  tender  thou  wilt  be  towards  him.  Esmond's 
general  and  his  Grace  the  Prince-Duke  were  notoriously  at 
variance,  and  the  former's  friendship  was  in  nowise  likel}^  to 
advance  au}^  man's  promotion  of  whose  services  Webb  spoke 
well ;  but  rather  likel}^  to  injure  him,  so  the  arm}'  said,  in  the 
favor  of  the  greater  man.  However,  Mr.  Esmond  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  mentioned  very  advantageousl}'  b}^  Major-General 
Webb  in  his  report  after  the  action ;  and  the  major  of  his  regi- 
ment and  two  of  the  captains  having  been  killed  upon  the  day 
of  Ramillies,  Esmond,  who  was  second  of  the  lieutenants,  got 
his  conipan}^  and  had  the  honor  of  serving  as  Captain  Esmond 
in  the  next  campaign. 

M}'  lord  went  home  in  the  winter,  but  Esmond  was  afraid  to 
follow  him.  His  dear  mistress  wrote  him  letters  more  than 
once,  thanking  him,  as  mothers  know  how  to  thank,  for  his  care 
and  protection  of  her  boy,  extolling  Esmond's  own  merits  with 
a  great  deal  more  praise  than  thej-  deserved ;  for  he  did  his 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  2'6b 

duty  no  better  than  any  other  officer  ;  and  speaking  sometimes, 
though  gently  and  cautiously,  of  Beatrix.  News  came  from 
home  of  at  least  half  a  dozen  grand  matches  that  the  beautiful 
maid  of  honor  was  about  to  make.  She  was  engaged  to  an 
earl,  our  gentleman  of  St.  James's  said,  and  then  jilted  him  for 
a  duke,  who,  in  his  turn,  had  drawn  off.  Earl  or  duke  it  might 
be  who  should  win  this  Helen,  Esmond  knew  she  would  never 
bestow  herself  on  a  poor  captain.  Her  conduct,  it  was  clear, 
was  little  satisfactory  to  her  mother,  who  scarcely  mentioned 
her,  or  else  the  kind  lady  thought  it  was  best  to  sa}^  nothing,  and 
leave  time  to  work  out  its  cure.  At  any  rate,  Harr}-  was  best 
away  from  the  fatal  object  which  always  wrought  him  so  much 
mischief;  and  so  he  never  asked  for  leave  to  go  home,  but 
remained  with  his  regiment  that  was  garrisoned  in  Brussels, 
which  city  fell  into  our  hands  when  the  victory  of  Ramillies 
drove  the  French  out  of  Flanders. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

i  meet  an  old  acquaintance  in  flanders,  and  find  my 
mother's  grave  and  my  ovtn  cradle  there. 

Being  one  da}^  in  the  Church  of  St.  Gudule,  at  Brussels, 
admiring  the  antique  splendor  of  the  architecture  (and  always 
entertaining  a  great  tenderness  and  reverence  for  the  Mother 
Church,  that  hath  been  as  wickedly  persecuted  in  England  as 
ever  she  herself  persecuted  in  the  days  of  her  prosperit}^) , 
Esmond  saw  kneeling  at  a  side  altar  an  officer  in  a  green  uniform 
coat,  very  deeply  engaged  in  devotion.  Something  familiar  in 
the  figure  and  posture  of  the  kneeling  man  struck  Captain 
Esmond,  even  before  he  saw  the  officer's  face.  As  he  rose  up, 
putting  awa}'  into  his  pocket  a  little  black  breviar}",  such  as 
priests  use,  Esmond  beheld  a  countenance  so  like  that  of  his 
friend  and  tutor  of  early  days,  Father  Holt,  that  he  broke  out 
into  an  exclamation  of  astonishment  and  advanced  a  step  to- 
wards the  gentleman,  who  was  making  his  way  out  of  church. 
The  German  officer  too  looked  surprised  when  he  saw  Esmond, 
and  his  face  from  being  pale  grew  suddenly  red.  By  this  mark 
of  recognition,  the  Englishman  knew  that  he  could  not  be 
mistaken ;  and  though  the  other  did  not  stop,  but  on  the  con- 


236  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

trary  rather  hastil}^  walked  away  towards  the  door,  Esmond 
pursued  him  and  faced  him  once  more,  as  the  officer,  helping 
himself  to  holy  water,  turned  mechanically  towards  the  altar, 
to  bow  to  it  ere  he  quitted  the  sacred  edifice. 

"  M}'  Father  !  "  says  Esmond  in  English. 

"  Silence  !  I  do  not  understand.  I  do  not  speak  English," 
BSLjs  the  other  in  Latin. 

Esmond  smiled  at  this  sign  of  confusion,  and  replied  in  the 
same  language —  "  I  should  know  my  Father  in  any  garment, 
black  or  white,  shaven  or  bearded ;  "  for  the  Austrian  officer 
was  habited  quite  in  the  military  manner,  and  had  as  warlike  a 
mustachio  as  an}^  Pandour. 

He  laughed  —  we  were  on  the  church  steps  by  this  time, 
passing  through  the  crowd  of  beggars  that  usually  is  there  hold- 
ing up  little  trinkets  for  sale  and  whining  for  alms.  "You 
speak  Latin,"  says  he,  "in  the  Enghsh  wa}^,  Harry  Esmond; 
3'ou  have  forsaken  the  old  true  Roman  tongue  you  once  knew." 
His  tone  was  very  frank,  and  friendly  quite  ;  the  kind  voice  of 
fifteen  3'ears  back  ;  he  gave  Esmond  his  hand  as  he  spoke. 

"  Others  have  changed  their  coats  too,  my  Father,"  says 
Esmond,  glancing  at  his  friend's  military  decoration. 

"Hush !  I  am  Mr.  or  Captain  von  Holtz,  in  the  Bavarian 
Elector's  service,  and  on  a  mission  to  his  Highness  the  Prince 
of  Savo3\     You  can  keep  a  secret  I  know  from  old  times." 

"Captain  von  Holtz,"  saj^s  Esmond,  "I  am  3'our  very 
humble  servant." 

"And  you,  too,  have  changed  3"our  coat,"  continues  the 
other  in  his  laughing  wa3^ ;  "  I  have  heard  of  you  at  Cambridge 
and  afterwards :  we  have  friends  ever3'where ;  and  I  am  told 
that  Mr.  Esmond  at  Cambridge  was  as  good  a  fencer  as  he 
was  a  bad  theologian."  (So,  thinks  Esmond,  m3'  old  maitre 
d'armes  was  a  Jesuit,  as  the3'  said.) 

"Perhaps  3'ou  are  right,"  sa3'S  the  other,  reading  his 
thoughts  quite  as  he  used  to  do  in  old  days;  "you  were  all 
but  killed  at  Hochstedt  of  a  wound  in  the  left  side.  You  were 
before  that  at  Vigo,  aide-de-camp  to  the  Duke  of  Ormonde. 
Y'ou  got  your  compan3^  the  other  da3'  after  Ramillies ;  3^our 
general  and  the  Prince-Duke  are  not  friends  ;  he  is  of  the 
Webbs  of  Lydiard  Tregoze,  in  the  count3^  of  York,  a  relation 
of  m3^  Lord  St.  John.  Your  cousin,  M.  de  Castlewood,  served 
his  first  campaign  this  year  in  the  Guard ;  3'es,  I  do  know  a 
few  things,  as  you  see." 

Captain  Esmond  laughed  in  his  turn.  "  You  have  indeed  a 
curious  knowledge,"  he  says.     A  foible  of  Mr.  Holt's,  who  did 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  237 

know  more  about  books  and  men  than,  perhaps,  almost  an}^ 
person  Esmond  had  ever  met,  was  omniscience ;  thus  in  ever}^ 
point  he  here  professed  to  know,  he  was  nearly  right,  but  not 
quite.  Esmond's  wound  was  in  the  right  side,  not  the  left; 
his  first  general  was  General  Lumle}^ ;  Mr.  Webb  came  out  of 
Wiltshire,  not  out  of  Yorkshire  ;  and  so  forth.  Esmond  did 
not  think  fit  to  correct  his  old  master  in  these  trifling  blunders, 
but  they  served  to  give  him  a  knowledge  of  the  other's  char- 
acter, and  he  smiled  to  think  that  this  was  his  oracle  of  early 
days  ;  only  now  no  longer  infallible  or  divine. 

"  l^es,'"'  continues  Father  Holt,  or  Captain  von  Holtz,  "  for 
a  man  who  has  not  been  in  England  these  eiglit  years,  I  know 
what  goes  on  in  London  very  well.  The  old  Dean  is  dead,  my 
Lady  Castlewood's  father.  Do  you  know  that  3'our  recusant 
bishops  wanted  to  consecrate  him  Bishop  of  Southampton,  and 
that  Collier  is  Bishop  of  Thetford  by  the  same  imposition? 
The  Princess  Anne  has  the  gout  and  eats  too  much  ;  when  the 
King  returns,  Collier  will  be  an  archbishop." 

"Amen!"  says  Esmond,  laughing;  "and  I  hope  to  see 
your  Eminence  no  longer  in  jack-boots,  but  red  stockings,  at 
Whitehall." 

' '  You  are  alwaj's  with  us  —  T  know  that  —  I  heard  of  that 
when  you  were  at  Cambridge  ;  so  was  the  late  lord ;  so  is  the 
young  viscount." 

"And  so  was  my  father  before  me,"  said  Mr.  Esmond, 
looking  calmly  at  the  other,  who  did  not,  however,  show  the 
least  sign  of  intelligence  in  his  impenetrable  gra}^  e3'es  —  how 
well  Hany  remembered  them  and  their  look !  only  crows'  feet 
were  wrinkled  round  them  —  marks  of  black  old  Time  had 
settled  there. 

Esmond's  face  chose  to  show  no  more  sign  of  meaning  than 
the  Father's.  There  may  have  been  on  the  one  side  and  the 
other  just  the  faintest  glitter  of  recognition,  as  you  see  a  bay- 
onet shining  out  of  an  ambush  ;  but  each  party  fell  back,  when 
everything  was  again  dark. 

"And  you,  mon  capitaine,  where  have  you  been?"  says 
Esmond,  turning  away  the  conversation  from  this  dangerous 
ground,  where  neither  chose  to  engage. 

"I  may  have  been  in  Pekin,"  says  he,  "or  I  may  have 
been  in  Paragua}^  —  who  knows  where?  I  am  now  Captain 
von  Holtz,  in  the  service  of  his  Electoral  Highness,  come  to 
negotiate  exchange  of  prisoners  with  his  Highness  of  Savoy." 

'Twas  well  known  that  very  many  officers  in  our  army  were 
well-affected  towards  the  young  king  at  St.  Germains,  whose 


238  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

right  to  the  throne  was  undeniable,  and  whose  accession  to  it, 
at  tlie  death  of  his  sister,  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  EngUsh 
people  would  have  preferred,  to  the  having  a  petty  German 
prince  for  a  sovereign,  about  whose  crueltj',  rapacity,  boorish 
manners,  and  odious  foreign  ways,  a  thousand  stories  were 
current.  It  wounded  our  English  pride  to  think  that  a  shabby 
High-Dutch  duke,  whose  revenues  were  not  a  tithe  as  great  as 
those  of  man}'  of  the  princes  of  our  ancient  English  nobility, 
who  could  not  speak  a  word  of  our  language,  and  whom  we 
chose  to  represent  as  a  sort  of  German  boor,  feeding  on  train- 
oil  and  sour-crout,  with  a  bev}^  of  mistresses  in  a  barn,  should 
come  to  reign  over  the  proudest  and  most  polished  people  in 
the  world.  Were  we,  the  conquerors  of  the  Grand  Monarch, 
to  submit  to  that  ignoble  domination?  What  did  the  Hano- 
verian's Protestantism  matter  to  us?  Was  it  not  notorious 
(we  were  told  and  led  to  believe  so)  that  one  of  the  daughters 
of  this  Protestant  hero  was  being  bred  up  with  no  religion  at 
all,  as  yet,  and  read}'  to  be  made  Lutheran  or  Roman,  accord- 
ing as  the  husband  might  be  whom  her  parents  should  find  for 
her?  This  talk,  very  idle  and  abusive  much  of  it  was,  went 
on  at  a  "hundred  mess-tables  in  the  army;  there  was  scarce  an 
ensign  that  did  not  hear  it,  or  join  in  it,  and  everybody  knew, 
or  affected  to  know,  that  the  Commander-in-Chief  himself  had 
relations  with  his  nephew,  the  Duke  of  Berwick  ('twas  by  an 
Englishman,  thank  God,  that  we  were  beaten  at  Almanza), 
and  that  his  Grace  was  most  anxious  to  restore  the  ro^'al  race 
of  his  benefactors,  and  to  repair  his  former  treason. 

This  is  certain,  that  for  a  considerable  period  no  officer  in 
the  Duke's  army  lost  favor  with  the  Commander-in-Chief  for 
entertaining  or  proclaiming  his  loyalty  towards  the  exiled 
family.  When  the  Chevalier  de  St.  George,  as  the  King  of 
England  called  himself,  came  with  the  dukes  of  the  Frendi 
blood  royal,  to  join  the  French  army  under  Vendosme,  hun- 
dreds of  ours  saw  him  and  cheered  him,  and  we  all  said  he  was 
like  his  father  in  this,  who,  seeing  tlie  action  of  La  Hogue 
fought  between  the  French  ships  and  ours,  was  on  tlie  side  of 
his  native  country  during  the  battle.  But  this,  at  least  the 
Chevalier  knew,  and  every  one  knew,  that,  however  well  our 
troops  and  their  general  might  be  inclined  towards  the  prince 
personally,  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  there  was  no  question  at 
all.  Wherever  m}^  Lord  Duke  found  a  French  army,  he  would 
fight  and  beat  it,  as  he  did  at  Oudenarde,  two  years  after 
Ramillies,  where  his  Grace  achieved  another  of  his  transcen- 
dent victories ;    and  the   noble  young  prince,   who   charged 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  239 

gallant!}^  along  with  the  magnificent  Maison-du-Ro}',  sent  to 
compUment  his  conquerors  after  the  action. 

In  this  battle,  where  the  young  Electoral  Prince  of  Hanover 
behaved  himself  very  gallantl,y,  fighting  on  our  side,  Esmond's 
dear  General  Webb  distinguished  himself  prodigious^,  exhibit- 
ing consummate  skill  and  coolness  as  a  general,  and  fighting 
with  the  personal  bravery  of  a  common  soldier.  Esmond's 
good-luck  again  attended  him ;  he  escaped  without  a  hurt, 
although  moii*e  than  a  third  of  his  regiment  was  killed,  had 
again  the  honor  to  be  favorably  mentioned  in  his  commander's 
report,  and  was  advanced  to  the  rank  of  major.  But  of  this 
action  there  is  little  need  to  speak,  as  it  hath  been  related  in 
every  Gazette,  and  talked  of  in  every  hamlet  in  this  countr3\ 
To  return  from  it  to  the  writer's  private  affairs,  which  here,  in 
his  old  age,  and  at  a  distance,  he  narrates  for  his  children  who 
come  after  him.  Before  Oudenarde,  after  that  chance  rencontre 
with  Captain  von  Holtz  at  Brussels,  a  space  of  more  than  a 
year  elapsed,  during  which  the  captain  of  Jesuits  and  the  cap- 
tain of  Webb's  Fusileers  were  thrown  very  much  together. 
Esmond  had  no  diflSculty  in  finding  out  (indeed,  the  other 
made  no  secret  of  it  to  him,  being  assured  from  old  times  of 
his  pupil's  fidelity),  that  the  negotiator  of  prisoners  was  an 
agent  from  St.  Germains,  and  that  he  carried  intelligence  be- 
tween great  personages  in  our  camp  and  that  of  the  French. 
"My  business,"  said  he — "and  I  tell  you,  both  because  I 
can  trust  you  and  your  keen  eyes  have  already  discovered  it  — 
is  between  the  King  of  England  and  his  subjects  here  engaged 
in  fighting  the  French  king.  As  between  you  and  them,  all 
the  Jesuits  in  the  world  will  not  prevent  your  quarreUing  :  fight 
it  out,  gentlemen.  St.  George  for  England,  I  say  —  and  you 
know  who  says  so,  wherever  he  may  be." 

I  think  Holt  loved  to  make  a  parade  of  mystery,  as  it  were, 
and  would  appear  and  disappear  at  our  quarters  as  suddenly 
as  he  used  to  return  and  vanish  in  the  old  days  at  Castlewood. 
He  had  passes  between  both  armies,  and  seemed  to  know  (but 
with  that  inaccuracy  which  belonged  to  the  good  Father's  omnis- 
cience) equally  well  what  passed  in  the  French  camp  and  in 
ours.  One  day  he  would  give  Esmond  news  of  a  great  feste 
that  took  place  in  the  French  quarters,  of  a  supper  of  Monsieur 
de  Rohan's,  where  there  was  play  and  violins,  and  then  dancing 
and  masques  ;  the  King  drove  thither  in  Marshal  Villars'  own 
guinguette.  Another  day  he  had  the  news  of  his  Majesty's 
ague  :  the  King  had  not  had  a  fit  these  ten  days,  and  might  be 
said  to  be  well.     Captain  Holtz  made  a  visit  to  England  during 


240  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

this  time,  so  eager  was  he  about  negotiating  prisoners;  and 
'twas  on  returning  from  this  vo3^age  that  he  began  to  open  him- 
self more  to  Esmond,  and  to  make  him,  as  occasion  served,  at 
their  various  meetings,  several  of  those  confidences  which  are 
here  set  down  all  together. 

The  reason  of  his  increased  confidence  was  this  ;  upon  going 
to  London,  the  old  director  of  Esmond's  aunt,  the  dowager, 
paid  her  lad3'ship  a  visit  at  Chelse}^  and  there  learnt  from  her 
that  Captain  Esmond  was  acquainted  with  the  secret  of  his 
family,  and  was  determined  never  to  divulge  it.  The  knowl- 
edge of  this  fact  raised  Esmond  in  his  old  tutor's  e3'es,  so  Holt 
was  pleased  to  sa}',  and  he  admired  Harry  very  much  for  his 
abnegation. 

' '  The  family  at  Castlewood  have  done  far  more  for  me  than 
my  own  ever  did,"  Esmond  said.  ''I  would  give  m}^  life  for 
them.  Wh}^  should  I  grudge  the  onl}^  benefit  that  'tis  in  my 
power  to  confer  on  them?"  The  good  Father's  eyes  filled  with 
tears  at  this  speech,  which  to  the  other  seemed  very  simple :  he 
embraced  Esmond,  and  broke  out  into  mau}^  admiring  expres- 
sions ;  he  said  he  was  a  nohle  cceur^  that  he  was  proud  of  him, 
and  fond  of  him  as  his  pupil  and  friend  —  regretted  more  than 
ever  that  he  had  lost  him,  and  been  forced  to  leave  him  in 
those  early  times,  when  he  might  have  had  an  influence  over 
him,  have  brought  him  into  that  onl}^  true  church  to  which  the 
Father  belonged,  and  enlisted  him  in  the  noblest  arni}^  in  which 
a  man  ever  engaged  —  meaning  his  own  society  of  Jesus,  which 
numbers  (says  he)  in  its  troops  the  greatest  heroes  the  world 
ever  knew ;  —  warriors  brave  enough  to  dare  or  endure  an}^- 
thing,  to  encounter  any  odds,  to  die  an}-  death  ;  —  soldiers  that 
have  won  triumphs  a  thousand  times  more  brilliant  than  those 
of  the  greatest  general ;  that  have  brought  nations  on  their 
knees  to  their  sacred  banner,  the  Cross  ;  that  have  achieved 
glories  and  palms  incomparably  brighter  than  those  awarded  to 
the  most  splendid  earthly  conquerors  —  crowns  of  immortal 
light,  and  seats  in  the  high  places  of  heaven. 

Esmond  was  thankful  for  his  old  friend's  good  opinion,  how- 
ever little  he  might  share  the  Jesuit- father's  enthusiasm.  "I 
have  thought  of  that  question,  too,"  says  he,  "dear  Father," 
and  he  took  the  other's  hand —  "  thought  it  out  for  myself,  as 
all  men  must,  and  contrive  to  do  the  right,  and  trust  to  heaven 
as  devoutly  in  my  way  as  you  in  yours.  Another  six  months 
of  you  as  a  child,  and  I  had  desired  no  better.  I  used  to  weep 
upon  my  pillow  at  Castlewood  as  I  thought  of  you,  and  I  might 
have  been  a  brother  of  your  order ;  and  who  knows,"  Esmond 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  241 

added,  with  a  smile,  "  a  priest  in  full  orders,  and  with  a  pair 
of  mnstachios,  and  a  Bavarian  uniform?" 

'^  My  son,"  sa^'s  Father  Holt,  turning  red,  "  in  the  cause  of 
religion  and  loj^alt}-  all  disguises  are  fair." 

''  Yes,"  broke  in  Esmond,  "  all  disguises  are  fair,  3'ou  say ; 
and  all  uniforms,  say  I,  black  or  red,  —  a  black  cockade  or  a 
white  one  —  or  a  laced  hat,  or  a  sombrero,  with  a  tonsure 
under  it.  I  cannot  beheve  that  St.  Francis  Xavier  sailed  over 
the  sea  in  a  cloak,  or  raised  the  dead  —  I  tried,  and  ver}'  nearly 
did  once,  but  cannot.  Suffer  me  to  do  the  right,  and  to  hope 
for  the  best  in  m}^  own  way." 

Esmond  wished  to  cut  short  the  good  Father's  theology,  and 
succeeded  ;  and  the  other,  sighing  over  his  pupil's  invincible 
ignorance,  did  not  withdraw  his  affection  from  him,  but  gave 
him  his  utmost  confidence  —  as  much,  that  is  to  say,  as  a  priest 
can  give  ;  more  than  most  do  ;  for  he  was  naturally  garrulous, 
and  too  eager  to  speak. 

Holt's  friendship  encouraged  Captain  Esmond  to  ask,  what 
he  long  wished  to  know,  and  none  could  tell  him,  some  history 
of  the  poor  mother  whom  he  had  often  imagined  in  his  dreams, 
and  whom  he  never  knew.  He  described  to  Holt  those  cir- 
cumstances which  are  already  put  down  in  the  first  part  of  this 
story — the  promise  he  had  made  to  his  dear  lord,  and  that 
d3ing  friend's  confession  ;  and  he  besought  Mr.  Holt  to  tell 
him  what  he  knew  regarding  the  poor  woman  from  whom  he 
had  been  taken. 

"  She  was  of  this  ver}^  town,"  Holt  said,  and  took  Esmond 
to  see  the  street  where  her  father  lived,  and  where,  as  he  be- 
lieved, she  was  boi'n.  "In  1676,  when  your  father  came 
hither  in  the  retinue  of  the  late  king,  then  Duke  of  York,  and 
banished  hither  in  disgrace,  Captain  Thomas  Esmond  became 
acquainted  with  3'our  mother,  pursued  her,  and  made  a  victim 
of  her ;  he  hath  told  me  in  many  subsequent  conversations, 
which  I  felt  bound  to  keep  private  then,  that  she  was  a  woman 
of  great  virtue  and  tenderness,  and  in  all  respects  a  most  fond, 
faithful  creature.  He  called  himself  Captain  Thomas,  having 
good  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  his  conduct  towards  her,  and 
hath  spoken  to  me  man^^  times  with  sincere  remorse  for  that, 
as  with  fond  love  for  her  many  amiable  qualities.  He  owned 
to  having  treated  her  very  ill :  and  that  at  this  time  his  life 
was  one  of  profligacy,  gambling,  and  poverty.  She  became 
with  child  of  you  ;  was  cursed  b,y  her  own  parents  at  that  dis- 
covery ;  though  she  never  upbraided,  except  by  her  involuntary 

16 


242  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

tears,  and  the  misery  depicted  on  her  countenance,  the  author 
of  her  wretchedness  and  ruin. 

"Thomas  Esmond  —  Captain  Thomas,  as  he  was  called  — 
became  engaged  in  a  gaming-house  brawl,  of  which  the  conse- 
quence was  a  duel,  and  a  wound  so  severe  that  he  never  —  his 
surgeon  said  —  could  outlive  it.  Thinking  his  death  certain, 
and  touched  with  remorse,  he  sent  for  a  priest  of  the  very 
Church  of  St.  Gudule  where  I  met  you  ;  and  on  the  same  day, 
after  his  making  submission  to  our  Church,  w^as  married  to 
3^our  mother  a  few  weeks  before  you  were  born.  My  Lord 
Viscount  Castlewood,  Marquis  of  Esmond,  by  King  James's 
patent,  which  I  myself  took  to  3'our  father,  3'our  lordship  was 
christened  at  St.  Gudule  by  the  same  cure  who  married  your 
parents,  and  by  the  name  of  Henry  Thomas,  son  of  E.  Thomas, 
ofRcier  Anglois,  and  Gertrude  Maes.  You  see  you  belong  to 
us  from  your  birth,  and  why  I  did  not  christen  3'ou  when  jon 
became  m}'  dear  little  pupil  at  Castlewood. 

"Your  father's  wound  took  a  favorable  turn  —  perhaps  his 
conscience  was  eased  b}'  the  right  he  had  done  —  and  to  the 
surprise  of  the  doctors  he  recovered.  But  as  his  health  came 
back,  his  wicked  nature,  too,  returned.  He  was  tired  of  the 
poor  girl,  whom  he  had  ruined  ;  and  receiving  some  remittance 
from  his  uncle,  my  lord  the  old  viscount,  then  in  England,  he 
pretended  business,  promised  return,  and  never  saw  your  poor 
mother  more. 

"He  owned  to  me,  in  confession  first,  but  afterwards  in 
talk  before  your  aunt,  his  wife,  else  I  never  could  have  dis- 
closed what  I  now  tell  3^ou,  that  on  coming  to  London  he  writ 
a  pretended  confession  to  poor  Gertrude  Maes  —  Gertrude 
Esmond  —  of  his  having  been  married  in  England  previousl}', 
before  uniting  himself  with  her ;  said  that  his  name  was  not 
Thomas  ;  that  he  was  about  to  quit  Europe  for  the  Virginian 
plantations,  where,  indeed,  j^our  family  had  a  grant  of  land 
from  King  Charles  the  First ;  sent  her  a  supply  of  money,  the 
half  of  the  last  hundred  guineas  he  had,  entreated  her  pardon, 
and  bade  her  farewell. 

"  Poor  Gertrude  never  thought  that  the  news  in  this  letter 
might  be  untrue  as  the  rest  of  3^our  father's  conduct  to  her. 
But  though  a  young  man  of  her  own  degree,  who  knew  her 
historA",  and  whom  she  liked  before  she  saw  the  English  gentle- 
uaan  who  was  the  cause  of  all  her  miser}',  offered  to  marry  her, 
and  to  adopt  you  as  his  own  child,  and  give  3'ou  his  name,  she 
refused  him.  This  refusal  only  angered  her  father,  who  had 
taken  her  home  ;  she  never  held  up  her  head  there,  being  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  243 

subject  of  constant  iinkindness  after  her  fall ;  and  some  de- 
vout ladies  of  her  acquaintance  offering  to  pay  a  little  pen- 
sion for  her,  she  went  into  a  convent,  and  3'ou  were  put  out 
to  nurse. 

"A  sister  of  the  young  fellow  who  would  have  adopted  you 
as  his  son  was  the  person  who  took  charge  of  3'ou.  Your 
mother  and  this  person  were  cousins.  She  had  just  lost  a 
child  of  her  own,  which  you  replaced,  3'our  own  mother  being 
too  sick  and  feeble  to  feed  you  ;  and  presently  your  nurse  grew 
so  fond  of  3'ou,  that  she  even  grudged  letting  you  visit  the  con- 
vent where  your  mother  was,  and  where  the  nuns  petted  the 
little  infant,  as  the}^  pitied  and  loved  its  unhappy  parent.  Her 
vocation  became  stronger  ever}'  dav,  and  at  the  end  of  two 
years  she  was  received  as  a  sister  of  the  house. 

"Your  nurse's  family  were  silk-weavers  out  of  France, 
whither  they  returned  to  Arras  in  French  Flanders,  shortly 
before  3-our  mother  took  her  vows,  carrying  3'ou  with  them, 
then  a  child  of  three  years  old.  'Twas  a  town,  before  the  late 
vigorous  measures  of  the  French  king,  full  of  Protestants,  and 
here  your  nurse's  father,  old  Pastoureau,  he  with  whom  3'ou 
afterwards  lived  at  Ealing,  adopted  the  reformed  doctrines, 
perverting  all  his  house  with  him.  The}-  were  expelled  thence 
b}^  the  edict  of  his  most  Christian  Majesty,  and  came  to  London, 
and  set  up  their  looms  in  Spittlefields.  The  old  man  brought 
a  little  mone}'  with  him,  and  carried  on  his  trade,  but  in  a  poor 
wa}'.  He  was  a  widower ;  by  this  time  his  daughter,  a  widow 
too,  kept  house  for  him,  and  his  son  and  he  labored  together 
at  their  vocation.  Meanwhile  3'our  father  had  p'ublicl}'  owned 
his  conversion  just  before  King  Charles's  death  (in  whom  our 
Church  had  much  such  another  convert),  was  reconciled  to  my 
Lord  Viscount  Castlewood,  and  married,  as  3'ou  know,  to  his 
daughter. 

"It  chanced  that  the  3'ounger  Pastoureau,  going  with  a 
piece  of  brocade  to  the  mercer  who  emplo3'ed  him,  on  Ludgate 
Hill,  met  his  old  rival  coming  out  of  an  ordlnar3'  there.  Pas- 
toureau knew  3'our  father  at  once,  seized  him  bv  the  collar, 
and  upbraided  him  as  a  villain,  who  had  seduced  his  mistress, 
and  afterwards  deserted  her  and  her  son.  Mr.  Thomas  Esmond 
also  recognized  Pastoureau  at  once,  besought  him  to  calm  his 
indignation,  and  not  to  bring  a  crowd  round  about  them  ;  and 
bade  him  to  enter  into  the  tavern,  out  of  which  he  had  just 
stepped,  when  he  would  give  him  an3"  explanation.  Pastoureau 
entered,  and  heard  the  landlord  order  the  drawer  to  show  Cap- 
tain Thomas  to  a  room ;  it  was  by  his  Christian  name  that 


244  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

3'our  father  was  familiarly  called  at  his  tavern  haunts,  which, 
to  say  the  truth,  were  none  of  the  most  reputable. 

*'  I  must  tell  you  that  Captain  Thomas,  or  my  Lord  Viscount 
afterwards,  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a  story,  and  could  cajole  a 
woman  or  a  dun  with  a  volubilit}",  and  an  air  of  simplicit}^  at 
the  same  time,  of  which  many  a  creditor  of  his  has  been  the 
dupe.  His  tales  used  to  gather  verisimilitude  as  he  went  on 
with  them.  He  strung  together  fact  after  fact  with  a  wonderful 
rapidit}^  and  coherence.  It  required,  saving  your  presence,  a 
very  long  habit  of  acquaintance  with  your  father  to  know  when 
his  lordship  was  1 ,  — telling  the  truth  or  no. 

' '  He  told  me  with  rueful  remorse  when  he  was  ill  —  for  the 
fear  of  death  set  him  instantly  repenting,  and  with  shrieks  of 
laughter  when  he  was  weh,  his  lordship  having  a  very  great 
sense  of  humor — how  in  a  half  an  hour's  time,  and  before  a 
bottle  was  drunk,  he  had  completel}^  succeeded  in  biting  poor 
Pastoureau.  The  seduction  he  owned  to :  that  he  could  not 
help  :  he  was  quite  ready  with  tears  at  a  moment's  warning,  and 
shed  them  profusely  to  melt  his  credulous  listener.  He  wept 
for  3'our  mother  even  more  than  Pastoureau  did,  who  cried  very 
heartil}^,  poor  fellow,  as  m}'  lord  informed  me ;  he  swore  upon 
his  honor  that  he  had  twice  sent  mone^^  to  Brussels,  and  men- 
tioned the  name  of  the  merchant  with  whom  it  was  lying  for 
poor  Gertrude's  use.  He  did  not  even  know  whether  she  had  a 
child  or  no,  or  whether  she  was  ahve  or  dead  ;  but  got  these 
facts  easily  out  of  honest  Pastoureau's  answers  to  him.  When 
he  heard  that  she  was  in  a  convent,  he  said  he  hoped  to  end  his 
daj's  in  one  himself,  should  he  survive  his  wife,  whom  he  hated, 
and  had  been  forced  by  a  cruel  father  to  marr}^ ;  and  when  he 
was  told  that  Gertrude's  son  was  alive,  and  actually  in  London, 
'  I  started,'  sa3^s  he  ;  '  for  then,  damme,  my  wife  was  expecting 
to  lie  in,  and  I  thought  should  this  old  Put,  my  father-in-law, 
run  rust}',  here  would  be  a  good  chance  to  frighten  him.' 

"  He  expressed  the  deepest  gratitude  to  the  Pastoureau 
family  for  the  care  of  the  infant :  j^ou  were  now  near  six  years 
old ;  and  on  Pastoureau  bluntly  telling  him,  when  he  proposed 
to  go  that  instant  and  see  the  darling  child,  that  they  never 
wished  to  see  his  ill-omened  face  again  within  their  doors  ;  that 
he  might  have  the  bo}^,  though  they  should  all  be  ver}'  sorry  to 
lose  him  ;  and  that  the}'  would  take  his  money,  they  being  poor, 
if  he  gave  it ;  or  bring  him  up,  by  God's  help,  as  they  had 
hitherto  done,  without :  he  acquiesced  in  this  at  once,  with  a 
sigh,  said,  '  Well,  'twas  better  that  the  dear  child  should  re- 
main with  friends  who  had  been  so  admirably  kind  to  him  ; '  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  245 

in  his  talk  to  me  afterwards,  honestl}'  praised  and  admired  the 
weaver's  conduct  and  spirit ;  owned  tliat  the  Frenchman  was  a 
riglit  fellow,  and  he,  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  him,  a  sad 
villain. 

''  Your  father,"  Mr.  Holt  went  on  to  sa^^  "  was  good- 
natured  with  his  mone}^  when  he  had  it ;  and  having  that  day 
received  a  supply  from  his  uncle,  gave  the  weaver  ten  pieces 
with  perfect  freedom,  and  promised  him  further  remittances. 
He  took  down  eagerly  Pastoureau's  name  and  place  of  abode  in 
his  table-book,  and  when  the  other  asked  him  for  his  own,  gave, 
with  the  utmost  readiness,  his  name  as  Captain  Thomas,  New 
Lodge,  Penzance,  Cornwall ;  he  said  he  was  in  London  for  a 
few  days  only  on  business  connected  with  his  wife's  property ; 
described  her  as  a  shrew,  though  a  woman  of  kind  disposition ; 
and  depicted  his  father  as  a  Cornish  squire,  in  an  infirm  state  of 
health,  at  whose  death  he  hoped  for  something  handsome,  when 
he  promised  richlj'  to  reward  the  admirable  protector  of  his 
child,  and  to  provide  for  the  boy.  '  And  by  Gad,  sir,'  he  said 
to  me  in  his  strange  laughing  way,  '  I  ordered  a  piece  of  brocade 
of  the  very  same  pattern  as  that  which  the  fellow  was  carr}  ing, 
and  presented  it  to  my  wife  for  a  morning  wrapper,  to  receive 
company  after  she  lay  in  of  our  little  boy.' 

"  Your  little  pension  was  paid  regularly  enough  ;  and  when 
3^our  father  became  Viscount  Castlewood  on  his  uncle's  demise, 
I  was  employed  to  keep  a  watch  over  you,  and  'twas  at  my  in- 
stance that  you  were  brought  home.  Your  foster-mother  was 
dead  ;  her  father  made  acquaintance  with  a  woman  whom  he 
married,  who  quarrelled  with  his  son.  The  faithful  creature 
came  back  to  Brussels  to  be  near  the  woman  he  loved,  and  died, 
too,  a  few  months  before  her.  Will  you  see  her  cross  in  the 
convent  cemetery?  The  Superior  is  an  old  penitent  of  mine, 
and  remembers  Soeur  Marie  Madeleine  fondl}^  still." 

Esmond  came  to  this  spot  in  one  sunny  evening  of  spring, 
and  saw,  amidst  a  thousand  black  crosses,  casting  their  shadows 
across  the  grassy  mounds,  that  particular  one  which  marked  his 
mother's  resting-place.  Man}"  more  of  those  poor  creatures  that 
lay  there  had  adopted  that  same  name,  with  which  sorrow  had 
rebaptized  her,  and  which  fondly  seemed  to  hint  their  individual 
story  of  love  and  grief.  He  fancied  her  in  tears  and  darkness, 
kneeling  at  the  foot  of  her  cross,  under  which  her  cares  were 
buried.  Surely  he  knelt  down,  and  said  his  own  praj^er  there, 
not  in  sorrow  so  much  as  in  awe  (for  even  his  memor}^  had  no 
recollection  of  her),  and  in  pit}"  for  the  pangs  which  the  gentle 


246  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

soul  in  life  had  been  made  to  suffer.  To  this  cross  she  brought 
them  ;  for  this  heavenly  bridegroom  she  exchanged  the  husband 
who  had  wooed  her,  the  traitor  who  had  left  her.  A  thousand 
such  hillocks  la}^  round  about,  the  gentle  daisies  springing  out 
of  the  grass  over  them,  and  each  bearing  its  cross  and  requi- 
escat.  A  nun,  veiled  in  black,  was  kneeling  hard  b}',  at  a  sleep- 
ing sister's  bedside  (so  fresh  made,  that  the  spring  had  scarce 
had  time  to  spin  a  coverlid  for  it)  ;  be^'ond  the  cemetery"  walls 
you  had  glimpses  of  life  and  the  world,  and  the  spires  and 
gables  of  the  city.  A  bird  came  down  from  a  roof  opposite, 
and  lit  first  on  a  cross,  and  then  on  the  grass  below  it,  whence 
it  flew  SiWfxy  presently  with  a  leaf  in  its  mouth  :  then  came  a 
sound  as  of  chanting,  from  the  chapel  of  the  sisters  hard  by ; 
others  had  long  since  filled  the  place  which  poor  Mary  Magde- 
leine  once  had  there,  were  kneeling  at  the  same  stall,  and  hear- 
ing the  same  hj^rans  and  prayers  in  which  her  stricken  heart  had 
found  consolation.  Might  she  sleep  in  peace  —  might  she  sleep 
in  peace ;  and  we,  too,  when  our  struggles  and  pains  are  over ! 
But  the  earth  is  the  Lord's  as  the  heaven  is  ;  we  are  alike  his 
creatures  here  and  yonder.  I  took  a  little  flower  off"  the  hillock 
and  kissed  it,  and  went  m}^  wa}^,  like  the  bird  that  had  just 
lighted  on  the  cross  by  me,  back  into  the  world  again.  Silent 
receptacle  of  death ;  tranquil  depth  of  calm,  out  of  reach  of 
tempest  and  trouble  !  I  felt  as  one  who  had  been  walking  be- 
low the  sea,  and  treading  amidst  the  bones  of  shipwrecks. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE  CAMPAIGN  OP  1707,  1708. 

During  the  whole  of  the  3'ear  which  succeeded  that  in  which 
the  glorious  battle  of  Ramillies  had  been  fought,  our  army  made 
no  movement  of  importance,  much  to  the  disgust  of  very  many 
of  our  oflflcers  remaining  inactive  in  Flanders,  who  said  that  his 
Grace  the  Captain-General  had  had  fighting  enough,  and  was 
all  for  mone}^  now,  and  the  enjo3'ment  of  his  five  thousand  a 
year  and  his  splendid  palace  at  Woodstock,  which  was  now  be- 
ing built.  And  his  Grace  had  suflScient  occupation  fighting  his 
enemies  at  home  this  3'ear,  where  it  began  to  be  whispered  that 
his  favor  was  decreasing,  and  his  duchess  losing  her  hold  on 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  24? 

the  Queen,  who  was  transferring  her  royal  affections  to  the 
famous  Mrs.  Masliam,  and  Mrs.  Masham's  humble  servant,  Mr. 
Harle3\  Against  their  intrigues,  our  Duke  passed  a  great  part 
of  his  time  intriguing.  Mr.  Harley  was  got  out  of  office,  and  his 
Grace,  in  so  far,  had  a  victory.  But  her  Majesty,  convinced 
against  her  will,  w^as  of  that  opinion  still,  of  which  the  poet  says 
people  are  when  so  convinced,  and  Mr.  Harley  before  long  had 
his  revenge. 

Meanwhile  the  business  of  fighting  did  not  go  on  any  way  to 
the  satisfaction  of  Marlborough's  gallant  lieutenants.  During 
all  1707,  with  the  French  before  us,  we  had  never  so  much  as  a 
battle  ;  our  army  in  Spain  was  utterly  routed  at  Almanza  by  the 
gallant  Duke  of  Berwick;  and  we  of  Webb's,  which  regiment 
the  young  Duke  had  commanded  before  his  father's  abdication, 
were  a  little  proud  to  think  that  it  was  our  colonel  who  had 
achieved  this  victory.  "  I  think  if  I  had  had  Gal  way's  place, 
and  my  Fusileers,"  says  our  General,  "  we  would  not  have  laid 
down  our  arms,  even  to  our  old  colonel,  as  Galway  did  ;  "  and 
Webb's  officers  swore  if  we  had  had  Webb,  at  least  we  would 
not  have  been  taken  prisoners.  Our  dear  old  general  talked  in- 
eautiousl}'  of  himself  and  of  others  ;  a  braver  or  a  more  brilliant 
soldier  never  lived  than  he ;  but  he  blew  his  honest  trumpet 
rather  more  loudh*  than  became  a  commander  of  his  station, 
and,  mighty  man  of  valor  as  he  was,  shook  his  great  spear  and 
blustered  before  the  army  too  fiercel}'. 

Mysterious  Mr.  Holtz  went  off  on  a  secret  expedition  in  the 
early  part  of  1708,  with  great  elation  of  spirits  and  a  prophecy 
to  Esmond  that  a  wonderful  something  was  about  to  take  place. 
This  secret  came  out  on  my  friend's  return  to  the  arm}',  whither 
he  brought  a  most  rueful  and  dejected  countenance,  and  owned 
that  the  great  something  he  had  been  engaged  upon  had  failed 
utterly.  He  had  been  indeed  with  that  luckless  expedition  of 
the  Chevalier  de  St.  George,  who  was  sent  b}'  the  French  king 
with  ships  and  an  arm}'  from  Dunkirk,  and  was  to  have  invaded 
and  conquered  Scotland.  But  that  ill  wind  which  ever  opposed 
all  the  projects  upon  which  the  Prince  ever  embarked,  pre- 
vented the  Chevalier's  invasion  of  Scotland,  as  'tis  known,  and 
blew  poor  Monsieur  von  Holtz  back  into  our  camp  again,  to 
scheme  and  foretell,  and  to  pry  about  as  usual.  The  Cheva- 
lier (the  king  of  England,  as  some  of  us  held  him)  went  from 
Dunkirk  to  the  French  army  to  make  the  campaign  against  us. 
The  Duke  of  Burgundy  had  the  command  this  year,  having  the 
Duke  of  Berry  with  him,  and  the  famous  Mareschal  Vendosme 
and  the  Duke  of  Matignon  to  aid  him  in  the  campaign.     Holtz, 


248  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

who  knew  ever^^thing  that  was  passing  in  Flanders  and  France 
(and  the  Indies  for  what  I  know),  insisted  that  there  would  be 
no  more  fighting  in  1708  than  there  had  been  in  the  previous 
year,  and  that  our  commander  had  reasons  for  keeping  him 
quiet.  Indeed,'  Esmond's  general,  who  was  known  as  a 
grumbler,  and  to  have  a  hearty  mistrust  of  the  great  Duke, 
and  hundreds  more  officers  besides,  did  not  scruple  to  say  that 
these  private  reasons  came  to  the  Duke  in  the  shape  of  crown- 
pieces  from  the  French  King,  by  whom  the  Generalissimo  was 
bribed  to  avoid  a  battle.  There  were  plenty  of  men  in  our 
lines,  quidnuncs,  to  whom  Mr.  Webb  listened  onlv  too  will- 
ingly^, who  could  specif}'  the  exact  sums  the  Duke  got,  how 
much  fell  to  Cadogan's  share,  and  what  was  the  precise  fee 
given  to  Doctor  Hare. 

And  the  successes  with  which  the  French  began  the  campaign 
of  1708  served  to  give  strength  to  these  reports  of  treason, 
which  were  in  everybody's  mouth.  Our  general  allowed  the 
enemy  to  get  between  us  and  Ghent,  and  declined  to  attack 
him,  though  for  eight  and  forty  hours  the  armies  were  in  pres- 
ence of  each  other.  Ghent  was  taken,  and  on  the  same  day 
Monsieur  de  la  Mothe  summoned  Bruges  ;  and  these  two  great 
cities  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  F^rench  without  firing  a  shot. 
A  few  days  afterwards  La  Mothe  seized  upon  the  fort  of  Plash- 
endall :  and  it  began  to  be  supposed  that  all  Spanish  Flanders, 
as  well  as  Brabant,  would- fall  into  the  hands  of  the  French 
troops  ;  when  the  Prince  Eugene  arrived  from  the  Mozelle,  and 
then  there  was  no  more  shill3'-shallying. 

The  Prince  of  Savoy  always  signalized  his  arrival  at  the 
army  by  a  great  feast  (my  Lord  Duke's  entertainments  were 
both  seldom  and  shabbj^)  :  and  I  remember  our  general  return- 
ing from  this  dinner  with  the  two  commanders-in-chief;  his 
honest  head  a  little  excited  by  wine,  which  was  dealt  out  much 
more  liberall}'  by  the  Austrian  than  by  the  English  commander : 
—  "  Now,"  sa3's  my  general,  slapping  the  table,  with  an  oath, 

"  he  must  fight ;  and  when  he  is  forced  to  it,  d it,  no  man 

in  Europe  can  stand  up  against  Jack  Churchill."  Within  a 
week  the  battle  of  Oudenarde  was  fought,  when,  hate  each 
other  as  they  might,  Esmond's  general  and  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  were  forced  to  admire  each  other,  so  splendid  was  the 
gallantry  of  each  upon  this  da}^ 

The  brigade  commanded  by  Major-General  Webb  gave  and 
received  about  as  hard  knocks  as  any  that  were  delivered  in 
that  action,  in  which  Mr.  Esmond  had  the  fortune  to  serve 
at  the  head  of  his  own  company  in  his  regiment,  under  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  249 

command  of  their  own  Colonel  as  Major-General ;  and  it  was 
his  good  luck  to  bring  the  regiment  out  of  action  as  commander 
of  it,  the  four  senior  officers  above  him  being  killed  in  the  pro- 
digious slaughter  which  happened  on  that  day.  I  like  to  think 
that  Jack  Haythorn,  who  sneered  at  me  for  being  a  bastard  and 
a  parasite  of  Webb's,  as  he  chose  to  call  me,  and  with  whom  I 
had  had  words,  shook  hands  with  me  the  day  before  the  battle 
began.  Three  daj's  before,  poor  Brace,  our  Lieutenant-Colonel, 
had  heard  of  his  elder  brother's  death,  and  was  heir  to  a  baro- 
netcy in  Norfolk,  and  four  thousand  a  year.  Fate,  that  had 
left  him  harmless  through  a  dozen  campaigns,  seized  on  him 
just  as  the  world  was  worth  living  for,  and  he  went  into  action 
knowing,  as  he  said,  that  the  luck  was  going  to  turn  against 
him.  The  Major  had  just  joined  us  —  a  creature  of  Lord  Marl- 
borough, put  in  much  to  the  dislike  of  the  other  officers,  and  to 
be  a  sp3^  upon  us,  as  it  was  said.  I  know  not  whether  the 
truth  was  so,  nor  who  took  the  tattle  of  our  mess  to  head- 
quarters, but  Webb's  regiment,  as  its  Colonel,  was  known  to 
be  in  the  Commander-in-Chief's  black  books  :  ''  And  if  he  did 
not  dare  to  break  it  up  at  home,"  our  gallant  old  chief  used  to 
say,  "  he  was  determined  to  destroy  it  before  the  enemy  ;  "  so 
that  poor  Major  Proudfoot  was  put  into  a  post  of  danger. 

Esmond's  dear  young  Viscount,  serving  as  aide-de-camp  to 
my  Lord  Duke,  received  a  wound,  and  won  an  honorable  name 
for  himself  in  the  Gazette  ;  and  Captain  Esmond's  name  was 
sent  in  for  promotion  by  his  General,  too,  whose  favorite  he 
was.  It  made  his  heart  beat  to  think  that  certain  eyes  at  home, 
the  brightest  in  the  world,  might  read  the  page  on  which  his 
humble  services  were  recorded ;  but  his  mind  was  made  up 
steadily  to  keep  out  of  their  dangerous  influence,  and  to  let 
time  and  absence  conquer  that  passion  he  had  still  lurking 
about  him.  Awa}'  from  Beatrix,  it  did  not  trouble  him  ;  but 
he  knew  as  certain  that  if  he  returned  home,  his  fever  would 
break  out  again,  and  avoided  Walcote  as  a  Lincolnshire  man 
avoids  returning  to  his  fens,  where  he  is  sure  that  the  ague  is 
lying  in  wait  for  him. 

We  of  the  English  part}^  in  the  army,  who  were  inclined  to 
sneer  at  everything  that  came  out  of  Hanover,  and  to  treat 
as  little  better  than  boors  and  savages  the  Elector's  court  and 
family,  were  yet  forced  to  confess  that,  on  the  day  of  Oude- 
narde,  the  .young  Electoral  Prince,  then  making  his  first  cam- 
paign, conducted  himself  with  the  spirit  and  courage  of  an 
approved  soldier.  On  this  occasion  his  Electoral  Highness  had 
better  luck  than  the  King  of  England,  who  was  with  his  cousins 


250  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

in  the  enem3''s  camp,  and  had  to  run  with  them  at  the  ignomin- 
ious end  of  the  da}'.  With  the  most  consummate  generals  in  the 
world  before  them,  and  an  admirable  commander  on  their  own 
side,  the}' chose  to  neglect  the  councils,  and  to  rush  into  a  com- 
bat with  the  former,  which  would  have  ended  in  the  utter  anni- 
hilation of  their  army  but  for  the  great  skill  and  bravery  of  the 
Duke  of  Vendosme,  who  remedied,  as  far  as  courage  and  genius 
might,  the  disasters  occasioned  b}'  the  squabbles  and  foUies  of 
his  kinsmen,  the  legitimate  princes  of  the  blood  ro3'al. 

"  If  the  Duke  of  Berwick  had  but  been  in  the  aruiy,  the  fate 
of  the  day  would  have  been  very  different,"  was  all  that  poor 
Mr.  von  Holtz  could  say  ;  "  and  3'ou  would  have  seen  that  the 
hero  of  Almanza  was  fit  to  measure  swords  with  the  conqueror 
of  Blenheim." 

The  business  relative  to  the  exchange  of  prisoners  was  always 
going  on,  and  was  at  least  that  ostensible  one  which  kept  Mr. 
Holtz  perpetuallj'  on  the  move  between  the  forces  of  the  French 
and  the  Allies.  I  can  answer  for  it,  that  he  was  once  very  near 
hanged  as  a  sp}'  b\'  Major-General  Wayne,  when  he  was  released 
and  sent  on  to  head-quarters  by  a  special  order  of  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief. He  came  and  went,  always  favored,  wherever 
he  was,  by  some  high  though  occult  protection.  He  carried 
messages  between  the  Duke  of  Berwick  and  his  uncle,  our  Duke. 
He  seemed  to  know  as  well  what  was  taking  place  in  the  Prince's 
quarter  as  our  own :  he  brought  the  comphments  of  the  King 
of  England  to  some  of  our  officers,  the  gentlemen  of  Webb's 
among  the  rest,  for  their  behavior  on  that  great  day ;  and 
after  Wynendael,  when  our  General  was  chafing  at  the  neglect 
of  our  Commander-in-Chief,  he  said  he  knew  how  that  action 
was  regarded  by  the  chiefs  of  the  French  army,  and  that  the 
stand  made  before  Wynendael  wood  was  the  passage  by  which 
the  Allies  entered  Lille. 

"Ah!"  says  Holtz  (and  some  folks  were  very  willing  to 
listen  to  him),  "  if  the  king  came  b\'  his  own,  how  changed  the 
conduct  of  affairs  would  be  !  His  Majesty's  ver}'  exile  has  this 
advantage,  that  he  is  enabled  to  read  England  impartially,  and 
to  judge  honestly  of  all  the  eminent  men.  His  sister  is  always 
in  the  hand  of  one  greedy  favorite  or  another,  through  whose 
e3'es  she  sees,  and  to  whose  flattery  or  dependants  she  gives 
awa3'  everything.  Do  3'ou  suppose  that  his  Majest3',  knowing 
England  so  well  as  he  does,  would  neglect  such  a  man  as  Gen- 
eral Webb?  He  ought  to  be  in  the  House  of  Peers  as  Lord 
L3'diard.  The  enemy  and  all'  Europe  know  his  merit ;  it  is 
that  ver3'  reputation  which  certain  great  people,  who  hate  all 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  251 

equalit}'  and  independence,  can  never  pardon."  It  was  intended 
that  ttiese  conversations  should  be  carried  to  Mr.  Webb.  They 
were  welcome  to  him,  for  great  as  his  services  were,  no  man 
could  value  them  more  than  John  Richmond  Webb  did  himself, 
and  the  differences  between  him  and  Marlborough  being  noto- 
rious, his  Grace's  enemies  in  the  arm}'  and  at  home  began  to 
court  Webb,  and  set  him  up  against  the  all-grasping,  domineer- 
ing chief.  And  soon  after  the  victory  of  Oudenarde.  a  glorious 
opportunit}'  fell  into  General  Webb's  way,  which  that  gallant 
warrior  did  not  neglect,  and  which  gave  him  the  means  of  im- 
mensel}'  increasing  his  reputation  at  home. 

After  Oudenarde,  and  against  the  counsels  of  Marlborough, 
it  was  said,  the  Prince  of  Savoy  sat  down  before  Lille,  the 
capital  of  French  Flanders,  and  commenced  that  siege,  the 
most  celebrated  of  our  time,  and  almost  as  famous  as  the  siege 
of  Troy  itself,  for  the  feats  of  valor  performed  in  the  assault 
and  the  defence.  The  enmit}'  of  the  Prince  of  Savoy  against 
the  P'rench  king  was  a  furious  personal  hate,  quite  unlike  the 
calm  hostility  of  our  great  English  general,  who  was  no  more 
moved  by  the  game  of  war  than  that  of  billiards,  and  pushed 
forward  his  squadrons,  and  drove  his  red  battalions  hither 
and  thither  as  calmly  as  he  would  combine  a  stroke  or  make  a 
cannon  with  the  balls.  The  game  over  (and  he  pla3'ed  it  so  as 
to  be  pretty  sure  to  win  it) ,  not  the  least  animosit}'  against  the 
other  party  remained  in  the  breast  of  this  consummate  tac- 
tician. Whereas  between  the  Prince  of  Savo}^  and  the  French 
it  was  guerre  a  mort.  Beaten  off  in  one  quarter,  as  he  had 
been  at  Toulon  in  the  last  year,  he  was  back  again  on  another 
frontier  of  France,  assailing  it  with  his  indefatigable  fury. 
When  the  Prince  came  to  the  army,  the  smouldering  fires  of 
war  were  lighted  up  and  burst  out  into  a  flame.  Our  phleg- 
matic Dutch  allies  were  made  to  advance  at  a  quick  march  — 
our  calm  Duke  forced  into  action.  The  Prince  was  an  army 
in  himself  against  the  French ;  the  energy  of  his  hatred,  pro- 
digious, indefatigable  —  infectious  over  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  men.  The  Emperor's  general  was  repaying,  and  with  a 
vengeance,  the  slight  the  French  King  had  put  upon  the  fier}^ 
little  Abbe  of  Savoy.  Brilliant  and  famous  as  a  leader  him- 
self, and  beyond  all  measure  daring  and  intrepid,  and  enabled 
to  cope  with  almost  the  best  of  those  famous  men  of  war  who 
commanded  the  armies  of  the  French  King,  Eugene  had  a 
weapon,  the  equal  of  which  could  not  be  found  in  France, 
since  the  cannon-shot  of  Sasbach  laid  low  the  noble  Turenne, 
and  could  hurl  Marlborough  at  the  heads  of  the  French  host, 


252  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

and  crush  them  as  with  a  rock,  under  which  all  the  gathered 
strength  of  their  strongest  captains  must  go  down. 

The  English  Duke  took  little  part  in  that  vast  siege  of 
Lille,  which  the  Imperial  Generalissimo  pursued  with  all  his 
force  and  vigor,  further  than  to  cover  the  besieging  lines  from 
the  Duke  of  Burgund^^'s  armj",  between  which  and  the  Impe- 
riahsts  our  Duke  lay.  Once,  when  Prince  Eugene  was  wounded, 
our  Duke  took  his  Highness's  place  in  the  trenches  ;  but  the 
siege  was  with  the  Imperialists,  not  with  us.  A  division  under 
Webb  and  Rantzau  was  detached  into  Artois  and  Picardy  upon 
the  most  painful  and  odious  service  that  Mr.  Esmond  ever  saw 
in  the  course  of  his  military  life.  The  wretched  towns  of  the 
defenceless  provinces,  whose  young  men  had  been  drafted 
away  into  the  French  armies,  which  year  after  year  the  insa- 
tiable war  devoured,  were  left  at  our  mere}" ;  and  our  orders 
were  to  show  them  none.  We  found  places  garrisoned  by 
invalids,  and  children  and  women  ;  poor  as  they  were,  and  as 
the  costs  of  this  miserable  war  had  made  them,  our  commission 
was  to  rob  these  almost  starving  wretches  —  to  tear  the  food 
out  of  their  granaries,  and  strip  them  of  their  rags.  'Twas  an 
expedition  of  rapine  and  murder  we  were  sent  on  :  our  soldiers 
did  deeds  such  as  an  honest  man  must  blush  to  remember. 
We  brought  back  money  and  provisions  in  quantity  to  the 
Duke's  camp  ;  there  had  been  no  one  to  resist  us,  and  3^et  who 
dares  to  tell  with  what  murder  and  violence,  with  what  brutal 
cruelty,  outrage,  insult,  that  ignoble  boot}'  had  been  ravished 
from  the  innocent  and  miserable  victims  of  the  war? 

Meanwhile,  gallantly  as  the  operations  before  Lille  had  been 
conducted,  the  Allies  had  made  but  little  progress,  and  'twas 
said  when  we  returned  to  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  camp, 
that  the  siege  would  never  be  brought  to  a  satisfactory 
end,  and  that  the  Prince  of  Savo}^  would  be  forced  to  raise 
it.  M3'  Lord  Marlborough  gave  this  as  his  opinion  openly ; 
those  who  mistrusted  him,  and  Mr.  Esmond  owns  himself  to 
be  of  the  number,  hinted  that  the  Duke  had  his  reasons  why 
Lille  should  not  be  taken,  and  that  he  was  paid  to  that  end 
b}^  the  French  King.  If  this  was  so,  and  I  beUeve  it,  General 
Webb  had  now  a  remarkable  opportunity  of  gratifying  his 
hatred  of  the  Commander-in-Chief,  of  balking  that  shameful 
avarice,  which  was  one  of  the  basest  and  most  notorious  qual- 
ities of  the  famous  Duke,  and  of  showing  his  own  consum- 
mate skill  as  a  commander.  And  when  I  consider  all  the  cir- 
cumstances preceding  the  event  which  will  now  be  related,  that 
my  Lord  Duke  was  actually  offered  certain  millions  of  crowns 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  253 

provided  that  the  siege  of  Lille  should  be  raised :  that  the 
Imperial  army  before  it  was  without  provisions  and  ammu- 
nition, and  must  have  decamped  but  for  the  supplies  that  they 
received ;  that  the  march  of  the  convoy  destined  to  relieve 
the  siege  was  accuratel}'  known  to  the  French ;  and  that  the 
force  covering  it  was  shamefully  inadequate  to  that  end,  and 
by  six  times  inferior  to  Count  de  la  Mothe's  army,  which  was 
sent  to  intercept  the  convoy ;  when  'tis  certain  tiiat  the  Duke 
of  Berwick,  De  la  Mothe's  chief,  was  in  constant  correspond- 
ence with  his  uncle,  the  English  Generalissimo:  I  believe  on 
my  conscience  that  'twas  m}-  Lord  Marlborough's  intention  to 
prevent  those  supplies,  of  which  the  Prince  of  Savoy  stood  in 
absolute  need,  from  ever  reaching  his  Highness  ;  that  he  meant 
to  sacrifice  the  Uttle  army  which  covered  this  convoy,  and  to 
betray  it  as  he  had  betra3'ed  Tollemache  at  Brest ;  as  he  had 
betrajed  every  friend  he  had,  to  further  his  own  schemes  of 
avarice  or  ambition.  But  for  the  miraculous  victory  which 
Esmond's  general  won  over  an  arm}^  six  or  seven  times  greater 
than  his  own,  the  siege  of  Lille  must  have  been  raised  ;  and  it 
must  be  remembered  that  our  gallant  little  force  was  under  the 
command  of  a  general  whom  Marlborough  hated,  that  he  was 
furious  with  the  conqueror,  and  tried  by  the  most  open  and 
shameless  injustice  afterwards  to  rob  him  of  the  credit  of  his 
victory. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

GENERAL  WEBB  WINS  THE  BATTLE  OF  WYNENDAEL. 

By  the  besiegers  and  besieged  of  Lille,  some  of  the  most 
brilliant  feats  of  valor  were  performed  that  ever  illustrated  any 
war.  On  the  French  side  (whose  gallantry  was  prodigious, 
the  skill  and  bravery  of  Marshal  Boufflers  actually  eclipsing 
those  of  his  conqueror,  the  Prince  of  Savoy)  may  be  mentioned 
that  daring  action  of  Messieurs  de  Luxembourg  and  Tournefort, 
who,  with  a  body  of  horse  and  dragoons,  curried  powder  into 
the  town,  of  which  the  besieged  were  in  extreme  want,  each 
soldier  bringing  a  bag  with  forty  pounds  of  powder  behind  him  ; 
with  which  perilous  provision  they  engaged  our  own  horse, 
faced  the  fire  of  the  foot  brought  out  to  meet  them  :  and  though 
half  of  the  men  were  blown  up  in  the  dreadful  errand  they  rode 
on,  a  part  of  them  got  into  the  town  with  the  succors  of  which 


254  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

the  garrison  was  so  much  in  want.  A  French  officer,  Monsieur 
du  Bois,  performed  an  act  equally  daring,  and  perfectly-  suc- 
cessful. The  Duke's  great  army  lying  at  Helchin,  and  covering 
the  siege,  and  it  being  necessary  for  M.  de  Vendosme  to  get 
news  of  the  condition  of  the  place.  Captain  Dubois  performed 
his  famous  exploit :  not  only  passing  through  the  lines  of  the 
siege,  but  swimming  afterwards  no  less  than  seven  moats  and 
ditches :  and  coming  back  the  same  way,  swimming  with  his 
letters  in  his  moutli. 

By  these  letters  Monsieur  de  Boufflers  said  that  he  could 
undertake  to  hold  the  place  till  October ;  and  that  if  one  of  the 
convoys  of  the  AlUes  could  be  intercepted,  they  must  raise  the 
siege  altogether. 

Such  a  convoy  as  hath  been  said  was  now  prepared  at 
Ostend,  and  about  to  march  for  the  siege ;  and  on  the  27th 
September  we  (and  the  French  too)  had  news  that  it  was  on 
its  wa}^  It  was  composed  of  700  wagons,  containing  ammu- 
nition of  all  sorts,  and  was  escorted  out  of  Ostend  by  2,000 
infantry  and  300  horse.  At  the  same  time  M.  de  la  Mothe 
quitted  Bruges,  having  with  him  five-and-thirty  battalions,  and 
upwards  of  sixty  squadrons  and  forty  guns,  in  pursuit  of  the 
convo3\ 

Major-General  Webb  had  meanwhile  made  up  a  force  of 
twenty  battalions  and  three  squadrons  of  dragoons  at  Turout, 
whence  he  moved  to  cover  the  convo}^  and  pursue  La  Mothe : 
with  whose  advanced  guard  ours  came  up  upon  the  great  plain 
of  Turout,  and  before  the  little  wood  and  castle  of  W3'nendael ; 
behind  which  the  convoy  was  marching. 

As  soon  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  enemy,  our  advanced 
troops  were  halted,  with  the  wood  behind  them,  and  the  rest 
of  our  force  brought  up  as  quickl}"  as  possible,  our  little  body 
of  horse  being  brought  forward  to  the  opening  of  the  plain,  as 
our  General  said,  to  amuse  the  enemy.  When  M.  de  la  Mothe 
came  up,  he  found  us  posted  in  two  lines  in  front  of  the  wood  ; 
and  formed  his  own  army  in  battle  facing  ours,  in  eight  lines, 
four  of  infantry  in  front,  and  dragoons  and  cavalry  behind. 

The  French  began  the  action,  as  usual,  with  a  cannonade 
which  lasted  three  hours,  when  they  made  their  attack,  advan- 
cing in  eight  lines,  four  of  foot  and  four  of  horse,  upon  the  allied 
troops  in  the  wood  where  we  were  posted.  Their  infantry 
behaved  ill ;  the^y  were  ordered  to  charge  with  the  bayonet,  but, 
instead,  began  to  fire,  and  almost  at  the  very  first  discharge 
from  our  men,  broke  and  fled.  The  cavalry  behaved  better; 
with  these  alone,  who  were  three  or  four  times  as  numerous  as 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  255 

onr  whole  force,  Monsieur  de  la  Mothe  might  have  won  victory  : 
but  onl}^  two  of  our  battalions  were  shaken  in  the  least ;  and 
these  speedily  rallied :  nor  could  the  repeated  attacks  of  the 
French  horse  cause  our  troops  to  budge  an  inch  from  the  posi- 
tion in  the  wood  in  which  our  General  had  placed  them. 

After  attacking  for  two  hours,  the  French  retired  at  night- 
fall entirely  foiled.  With  all  the  loss  we  had  inflicted  upon 
him,  the  enemy  was  still  three  times  stronger  than  we :  and  it 
could  not  be  supposed  that  our  General  could  pursue  M.  de  la 
Mothe,  or  do  much  more  than  hold  our  ground  about  the  wood, 
from  which  the  Frenchman  had  in  vain  attempted  to  dislodge 
us.  La  Mothe  retired  behind  his  fort}^  guns,  his  cavahy  pro- 
tecting them  better  than  it  had  been  enabled  to  anno}'  us  ;  and 
meanwhile  the  convo3%  which  was  of  more  importance  than  all 
our  little  force,  and  the  safe  passage  of  which  we  would  have 
dropped  to  the  last  man  to  accomplish,  marched  awaj'  in  perfect 
safety  during  the  action,  and  joyfully  reached  the  besieging 
camp  before  Lille. 

Major-General  Cadogan,  my  Lord  Duke's  Quarter-Master- 
General,  (and  between  whom  and  Mr.  Webb  there  was  no 
love  lost) ,  accompanied  the  convoy,  and  joined  Mr.  Webb  with 
a  couple  of  hundred  horse  just  as  the  battle  was  over,  and  the 
enemy  in  full  retreat.  He  offered,  readily  enough,  to  charge 
with  his  horse  upon  the  French  as  the}'  fell  back  ;  but  his  force 
was  too  weak  to  inflict  any  damage  upon  them  ;  and  Mr.  Webb, 
commanding  as  Cadogan's  senior,  thought  enough  was  done  in 
holding  our  ground  before  an  enem}'  that  might  still  have  over- 
whelmed us  had  we  engaged  him  in  the  open  territor}',  and  in 
securing  the  safe  passage  of  the  convoy.  Accordingly,  the 
horse  brought  up  by  Cadogan  did  not  draw  a  sword  ;  and  only 
prevented,  b}'  the  good  countenance  they  showed,  any  disposi- 
tion the  French  might  have  had  to  renew  the  attack  on  us. 
And  no  attack  coming,  at  nightfall  General  Cadogan  drew  off 
with  his  squadron,  being  bound  for  head-quarters,  the  two 
Generals  at  parting  grimly  saluting  each  other. 

"  He  will  be  at  Roncq  time  enough  to  lick  my  Lord  Duke's 
trenchers  at  supper,"  says  Mr.  Webb. 

Our  own  men  lay  out  in  the  woods  of  W^'nendael  that  night, 
and  our  General  had  his  supper  in  the  little  castle  there. 

''  If  I  was  Cadogan,  I  would  have  a  peerage  for  this  daj^'s 
work,"  General  Webb  said  ;  "  and,  Harry,  thou  shouldst  have 
a  regiment.  Thou  hast  been  reported  in  the  last  two  actions  : 
thou  wert  near  killed  in  the  first.  I  shall  mention  thee  in  mj^ 
despatch  to  his  Grace  the  Commander-lQ-Chief,  and  recommend 


256  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEIsTRY  ESMOND. 

thee  to  poor  Dick  Harwood's  vacant  majority.  Have  j'ou  ever 
a  hundred  guineas  to  give  Cardonnel  ?  SHp  them  into  his  hand 
to-morrow,  when  3'ou  go  to  head-quarters  with  my  report." 

In  this  report  the  Major-General  was  good  enough  to  men- 
tion Captain  Esmond's  name  with  particular  favor ;  and  that 
gentleman  carried  the  despatch  to  head-quarters  the  next  day, 
and  was  not  a  little  pleased  to  bring  back  a  letter  bj'  his  Grace's 
secretary,  addressed  to  Lieutenant-General  Webb.  The  Dutch 
officer  despatched  by  Count  Nassau  Woudenbourg,  Vselt-Mare- 
schal  Auverquerque's  son,  brought  back  also  a  complimentary 
letter  to  his  commander,  who  had  seconded  Mr.  Webb  in  the 
action  with  great  valor  and  skill. 

Esmond,  with  a  low  bow  and  a  smiling  face,  presented  his 
despatch,  and  saluted  Mr.  Webb  as  Lieutenant-General,  as  he 
gave  it  in.  The  gentlemen  round  about  him  —  he  was  riding 
with  his  suite  on  the  road  to  Menin  as  Esmond  came  up  with 
him  —  gave  a  cheer,  and  he  thanked  them,  and  opened  the 
despatch  with  rather  a  flushed,  eager  face. 

He  slapped  it  down  on  his  boot  in  a  rage  after  he  had  read 
it.  " 'Tis  not  even  writ  with  his  own  hand.  Read  it  out, 
Esmond."     And  Esmond  read  it  out :  — 

"  Sir,  —  Mr.  Cadogan  is  just  now  come  in,  and  has  acquainted  me  with 
the  success  of  the  action  you  had  yesterday  in  the  afternoon  against  the 
body  of  troops  commanded  by  M.  de  la  Mothe,  at  Wynendael,  which  must 
be  attributed  chiefly  to  your  good  conduct  and  resolution.  You  may  be 
sure  I  shall  do  you  justice  at  home,  and  be  glad  on  all  occasions  to  own  the 
service  you  have  done  in  securing  this  convoy.  —  Yours,  &c.,  M." 

"Two  lines  by  that  d — d  Cardonnel,  and  no  more,  for  the 
taking  of  Lille  —  for  beating  five  times  our  number  —  for  an 
action  as  brilliant  as  the  best  he  ever  fought,"  says  poor  Mr. 
Webb.      "Lieutenant-General!     That's  not  his  doing.     I  was 

the  oldest  major-general.     B3'  ,  I  believe  he  had  been 

better  pleased  if  I  had  been  beat." 

The  letter  to  the  Dutch  officer  was  in  French,  and  longer 
and  more  complimentary  than  that  to  Mr.  Webb. 

"  And  this  is  the  man,"  he  broke  out,  "  that's  gorged  with 
gold  —  that's  covered  with  titles  and  honors  that  we  won  for 
him  —  and  that  grudges  even  a  line  of  praise  to  a  comrade 
in  arms  !  Hasn't  he  enough  ?  Don't  we  fight  that  he  may 
roll  in  riches?  Well,  well,  wait  for  the  Gazette,  gentlemen. 
The  Queen  and  the  country  will  do  us  justice  if  his  Grace  denies 
it  us."  There  were  tears  of  rage  in  the  brave  warrior's  ej^es  as 
he  spoke  ;  and  he  dashed  them  off  his  face  on  to  his  glove.    He 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  257 

shook  bis  fist  in  the  air.  "Oh,  by  the  Lord!"  says  he,  "I 
know  what  I  had  rather  have  than  a  peerage  !  " 

"  And  what  is  that,  sir?"  some  of  them  asked. 

"  I  had  rather  have  a  quarter  of  an  hour  with  John  Churchill, 
on  a  fair  green  field,  and  only  a  pair  of  rapiers  between  my 
shirt  and  his  —  " 

"  Sir  !  "  interposes  one. 

"Tell  him  so!  I  know  that's  what  j'ou  mean.  I  know 
every  word  goes  to  him  that's  dropped  from  every  general 
officer's  mouth.  I  don't  say  he's  not  brave.  Curse  him  !  he's 
brave  enough  ;  but  we'll  wait  for  the  Gazette,  gentlemen.  God 
save  her  Majesty  !  she'll  do  us  justice." 

The  Gazette  did  not  come  to  us  till  a  month  afterwards ; 
when  my  General  and  his  officers  had  the  honor  to  dine  with 
Prince  Eugene  in  Lille  ;  his  Highness  being  good  enough  to 
say  that  we  had  brought  the  provisions,  and  ought  to  share  in 
the  banquet.  'Twas  a  great  banquet.  His  Grace  of  Marl- 
])orough  was  on  his  Highness's  right,  and  on  his  left  the  Mareschal 
de  Boufflers,  who  had  so  bravely  defended  the  place.  The  chief 
officers  of  either  arm}'  were  present ;  and  you  may  be  sure 
Esmond's  General  was  splendid  this  day  :  his  tall  noble  person, 
and  manly  beauty  of  face,  made  him  remarkable  anywhere  ;  he 
wore,  for  the  first  time,  the  star  of  the  Order  of  Generosity, 
that  his  Prussian  Majesty  had  sent  to  him  for  his  victor}'.  His 
Highness  the  Prince  of  Savoy  called  a  toast  to  the  conqueror  of 
Wynendael.  My  Lord  Duke  drank  it  with  rather  a  sickly  smile. 
The  aides-de-camp  were  present :  and  Harry  Esmond  and  his 
dear  young  lord  were  together,  as  they  always  strove  to  be 
when  duty  would  permit :  they  were  over  against  the  table 
where  the  generals  were,  and  could  see  all  that  passed  pretty 
well.  Frank  laughed  at  my  Lord  Duke's  glum  face  :  the  affair 
of  Wynendael,  and  the  Captain-General's  conduct  to  Webb, 
had  been  the  talk  of  the  whole  army.  When  his  Highness 
spoke,  and  gave  —  "  Le  vainqueur  de  Wynendael;  son  armee 
et  sa  victoire,"  adding,  "qui  nous  font  diner  a  Lille  aujour- 
d'huy "  —  there  was  a  great  cheer  through  the  hall ;  for  Mr. 
Webb's  bravery,  generosity,  and  very  weaknesses  of  character 
(jaused  him  to  be  beloved  in  the  army. 

"  Like  Hector,  handsome,  and  like  Paris,  brave  !  "  whispers 
Frank  Castlewood.  "A  Venus,  an  elderly  Venus,  corjdn't 
refuse  him  a  pippin.  Stand  up,  Harry.  See,  we  are  drliiking 
the  army  of  Wynendael.  Ramillies  is  nothing  to  it.  H<!,zzay  i 
huzzay ! " 

At  this  very  time,  and  just  after  our  General  had  n^de  his 

17 


258  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

acknowledgment,  some  one  brought  in  an  English  Gazette  — 
and  was  passing  it  from  hand  to  hand  down  the  table.  Officers 
were  eager  enough  to  read  it ;  mothers  and  sisters  at  home 
must  have  sickened  over  it.  There  scarce  came  out  a  Gazette 
for  six  jears  that  did  not  tell  of  some  heroic  death  or  some 
brilliant  achievement. 

"  Here  it  is  —  Action  of  Wynendael — here  3'ou  are.  Gen- 
eral," sa3-s  Frank,  seizing  hold  of  the  little  dingy  paper  that 
soldiers  love  to  read  so  ;  and,  scrambling  over  from  our  bench, 
he  went  to  where  the  General  sat,  who  knew  him,  and  had  seen 
many  a  time  at  his  table  his  laughing,  handsome  face,  which 
everybody  loved  who  saw.  The  generals  in  their  great  perukes 
made  way  for  him.  He  handed  the  paper  over  General  Dohna's 
buff-coat  to  our  General  on  the  opposite  side. 

He  came  hobbling  back,  and  blushing  at  his  feat :  "I  thought 
he'd  like  it,  Harry,"  the  young  fellow  whispered.  "Didn't  I 
like  to  read  my  name  after  Ramillies,  in  the  London  Gazette  ? 
—  Viscount  Castlewood  serving  a  volunteer  —  I  say,  what's 
3'onder  ?  " 

Mr.  Webb,  reading  the  Gazette,  looked  very  strange  — 
slapped  it  down  on  the  table  —  then  sprang  up  in  his  place, 
and  began  to  —  "  Will  your  Highness  please  to  —  " 

His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  here  jumped  up  too  — 
"  There's  some  mistake,  my  dear  General  Webb." 

"  Your  Grace  had  better  rectifj^  it,"  says  Mr.  Webb,  holding 
out  the  letter ;  but  he  was  five  off  his  Grace  the  Prince  Duke, 
who,  besides,  was  higher  than  the  General  (being  seated  with 
the  Prince  of  Savo}',  the  Electoral  Prince  of  Hanover,  and  the 
envoys  of  Prussia  and  Denmark,  under  a  baldaquin),  and  Webb 
could  not  reach  him,  tall  as  he  was. 

"  Stay,"  says  he,  with  a  smile,  as  if  catching  at  some  idea, 
and  then,  with  a  perfect  courtesy,  drawing  his  sword,  he  ran 
the  Gazette  through  with  the  point,  and  said,  "Permit  me  to 
hand  it  to  your  Grace." 

The  Duke  looked  very  black.  "Take  it,"  saj's  he,  to  his 
Master  of  the  Horse,  who  was  waiting  behind  him. 

The  Lieutenant-General  made  a  ver}-  low  bow,  and  retired 
and  finished  his  glass.  The  Gazette  in  which  Mr.  Cardon- 
nel,  the  Duke's  secretary,  gave  an  account  of  the  victory  of 
Wynendael,  mentioned  Mr.  Webb's  name,  but  gave  the  sole 
praise  and  conduct  of  the  action  to  the  Duke's  favorite,  Mr. 
Cadogan. 

There  was  no  little  talk  and  excitement  occasioned  by  this 
strange  behavior  of  General  Webb,  who  had  almost  drawn  a 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  259 

sword  upon  the  Commander-in-Chief;  but  the  General,  after 
the  first  outbreak  of  his  anger,  mastered  it  outwardly  altogether  ; 
and,  by  his  subsequent  behavior,  had  the  satisfaction  of  even 
more  angering  the  Commander-in-Chief,  than  he  could  have 
done  b}'  any  public  exhibition  of  resentment. 

On  returning  to  his  quarters,  and  consulting  with  his  chief 
adviser,  Mr.  Esmond,  who  was  now  entirely  in  the  General's 
confidence,  and  treated  by  him  as  a  friend,  and  almost  a 
son,  Mr.  Webb  writ  a  letter  to  his  Grace  the  Commander-in- 
Chief,  in  which  he  said  :  — 

"Your  Grace  must  be  aware  that  the  sudden  perusal  of  the  London 
Gazette,  in  wliich  your  Grace's  secretary,  Mr.  Cardonnel,  hath  mentioned 
Major-General  Cadogan's  name  as  the  officer  commanding  in  the  late  action 
of  Wynendael,  must  have  caused  a  feehng  of  anything  but  pleasure  to  the 
General  who  fought  that  action. 

"  Your  Grace  must  be  aware  that  Mr.  Cadogan  was  not  even  present  at 
the  battle,  tliough  he  arrived  with  squadrons  of  horse  at  its  close,  and  put 
himself  under  tlie  connnand  of  his  superior  officer.  And  as  the  result  of 
the  battle  of  Wynendael,  in  which  Lieutenant-General  Webb  had  the  good 
fortune  to  command,  was  the  capture  of  Lille,  the  relief  of  Brussels,  then 
invested  by  the  enemy  under  the  Elector  of  Bavaria,  the  restoration  of  the 
great  cities  of  Ghent  and  Bruges,  of  which  the  enemy  (by  treason  within 
the  walls)  had  got  possession  in  the  previous  year,  Mr.  Webb  cannot  con- 
sent to  forego  the  honors  of  such  a  success  and  service,  for  the  benefit  of 
Mr.  Cadogan,  or  any  other  person. 

"  As  soon  as  the  military  operations  of  the  year  are  over,  Lieutenant- 
General  Webb  will  request  permission  to  leave  the  army,  and  return  to  his 
place  in  Parliament,  where  lie  gives  notice  to  his  Grace  the  Commander-in 
Chief,  that  he  shall  lay  his  case  before  the  House  of  Commons,  the  country, 
and  her  Majesty  the  Queen. 

"By  his  eagerness  to  rectify  that  false  statement  of  the  Gazette,  which 
had  been  written  by  his  Grace's  secretary,  Mr.  Cardonnel,  Mr.  Webb,  not 
being  able  to  reach  his  Grace  the  Commander-in-Chief  on  account  of  the 
gentlemen  seated  between  them,  placed  the  paper  containing  the  false 
statement  on  his  sword,  so  that  it  might  more  readily  arrive  in  the  hands  of 
his  Grace  tlie  Duke  of  Marlborough,  who  surely  would  wish  to  do  justice 
to  every  officer  of  his  army. 

"  Mr.  Webb  knows  his  duty  too  well  to  think  of  insubordination  to  his 
superior  officer,  or  of  using  his  sword  in  a  campaign  against  any  but  the 
enemies  of  her  Majesty.  He  solicits  permission  to  return  to  England  im- 
mediately the  military  duties  will  permit,  and  take  with  him  to  England 
Captain  Esmond,  of  his  regiment,  who  acted  as  his  aide-de-camp,  and  was 
present  during  the  entire  action,  and  noted  by  his  watch  the  time  when 
Mr.  Cadogan  arrived  at  its  close." 

The  Commander-in-Chief  could  not  but  grant  this  permis- 
sion, nor  could  he  take  notice  of  Webb's  letter,  though  it  was 
couched  in  terms  the  most  insulting.  Half  the  army  believed 
that  the  cities  of  Ghent  and  Bruges  were  given  up  by  a  treason, 
which  some  in  our  arm}^  ver}^  well  understood ;  that  the  Com- 


260  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

mander-in-Chief  would  not  have  relieved  Lille  if  he  could  have 
helped  himself;  that  he  would  not  have  fought  that  year  had 
not  the  Prince  of  Savoj^  forced  him.  When  the  battle  once 
began,  then,  for  his  own  renown,  my  Lord  Marlborough  would 
fight  as  no  man  in  the  world  ever  fought  better ;  and  no  bribe 
on  earth  could  keep  him  from  beating  the  enem}'.* 

But  the  matter  was  taken  up  by  the  subordinates  ;  and  half 
the  army  might  have  been  by  the  ears,  if  the  quarrel  had  not 
been  stopped.  General  Cadogan  sent  an  intimation  to  Gen- 
eral Webb  to  say  that  he  was  ready  if  Webb  liked,  and  would 
meet  him.  This  was  a  kind  of  invitation  our  stout  old  general 
was  always  too  ready  to  accept,  and  'twas  with  great  difficulty 
we  got  the  General  to  reply  that  he  had  no  quarrel  with  Mr. 
Cadogan,  who  had  behaved  with  perfect  gallantry,  but  only 
with  those  at  head-quarters,  who  had  belied  him.  Mr.  Cardon- 
nel  offered  General  Webb  reparation ;  Mr.  Webb  said  he  had 
a  cane  at  the  service  of  Mr.  Cardonnel,  and  the  only  satisfac- 
tion he  wanted  from  him  was  one  he  was  not  likely  to  get, 
namely,  the  truth.  The  officers  in  our  staff  of  Webb's,  and 
those  in  the  immediate  suite  of  the  General,  were  ready  to  come 
to  blows  ;  and  hence  arose  the  only  affair  in  which  Mr.  Esmond 
ever  engaged  as  principal,  and  that  was  from  a  revengeful  wish 
to  wipe  off"  an  old  injury. 

M}^  Lord  Mohun,  who  had  a  troop  in  Lord  Macclesfield's 
regiment  of  the  Horse  Guards,  rode  this  campaign  with  the 
Duke.  He  had  sunk  by  this  time  to  the  very  worst  reputation  ; 
he  had  had  another  fatal  duel  in  Spain ;  he  had  married,  and 
forsaken  his  wife ;   he  was  a  gambler,  a  profligate,  and  de- 

*  Our  Grandfather's  hatred  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  appears  all 
through  his  account  of  these  campaigns.  He  always  persisted  that  the 
Duke  was  the  greatest  traitor  and  soldier  history  ever  told  of  :  and  declared 
that  he  took  bribes  on  all  hands  during  the  war.  My  Lord  Marquis  (for 
so  we  may  call  him  here,  though  he  never  went  by  any  other  name  tlian 
Colonel  Esmond)  was  in  the  habit  of  telling  many  stories  which  he  did  not 
set  down  in  his  memoirs,  and  which  he  had  from  his  friend  the  Jesuit,  who 
was  not  always  correctly  informed,  and  who  persisted  that  Marlborough 
was  looking  for  a  bribe  of  two  millions  of  crowns  before  the  campaign  of 
Ramillies. 

And  our  Grandmother  used  to  tell  us  children,  that  on  his  first  presen- 
tation to  my  Lord  Duke,  the  Duke  turned  his  back  upon  my  Grandfather ; 
and  said  to  the  Duchess,  who  told  my  lady  dowager  at  Chelsey,  who  after- 
wards told  Colonel  Esmond  —  "  Tom  Esmond's  bastard  has  been  to  my 
levee  :  he  has  the  hang-dog  look  of  his  rogue  of  a  father  "  —  an  expression 
which  my  Grandfather  never  forgave.  He  was  as  constant  in  his  dislikes 
as  in  his  attachments  ;  and  exceedingly  partial  to  Webb,  whose  side  he 
took  against  the  more  celebrated  general.  We  have  General  Webb's  por- 
trait now  at  Ca&tlewood,  Va. 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  261 

bauchee.  He  joined  just  before  Oudenarde ;  and,  as  Esmond 
feared,  as  soon  as  Frank  Castlewood  heard  of  his  arrival,  Frank 
was  for  seeking  him  out,  and  killing  him.  The  wound  my  lord 
got  at  Oudenarde  prevented  their  meeting,  but  that  was  nearly 
healed,  and  Mr.  Esmond  trembled  daily  lest  Siuy  chance  should 
bring  his  boy  and  this  known  assassin  together.  They  met  at 
the  mess-table  of  Handyside's  regiment  at  Lille  ;  the  officer 
commanding  not  knowing  of  the  feud  between  the  two  noble- 
men. 

Esmond  had  not  seen  the  hateful  handsome  face  of  Mohur^ 
for  nine  3'ears,  since  they  had  met  on  that  fatal  night  in  Leices- 
ter Field.  It  was  degraded  with  crime  and  passion  now ;  it 
wore  the  anxious  look  of  a  man  who  has  three  deaths,  and  who 
knows  how  many  hidden  shames,  and  lusts,  and  crimes  on  his 
conscience.  He  bowed  with  a  sickly  low  bow,  and  slunk  away 
when  our  host  presented  us  round  to  one  another.  Frank 
Castlewood  had  not  known  him  till  then,  so  changed  was  he. 
He  knew  the  boy  well  enough. 

'Twas  curious  to  look  at  the  two  —  especially  the  young  man, 
whose  face  flushed  up  when  he  heard  the  hated  name  of  the 
other ;  and  who  said  in  his  bad  French  and  his  brave  bo3'ish 
voice  —  "He  had  long  been  anxious  to  meet  my  Lord  Mohun." 
The  other  onl}'  bowed,  and  moved  away  from  him.  I  do  him 
justice,  he  wished  to  have  no  quarrel  with  the  lad. 

Esmond  put  himself  between  them  at  table.     "D it," 

says  Frank,  "  why  do  you  put  yourself  in  the  place  of  a  man 
who  is  above  you  in  degree?  My  Lord  Mohun  should  walk 
after  me.     I  want  to  sit  b}^  my  Lord  Mohun." 

Esracfnd  whispered  to  Lord  Mohun,  that  Frank  was  hurt 
in  the  leg  at  Oudenarde ;  and  besought  the  other  to  be  quiet. 
Quiet  enough  he  was  for  some  time  ;  disregarding  the  many 
taunts  which  young  Castlewood  flung  at  him,  until  after  several 
healths,  when  my  Lord  Mohun  got  to  be  rather  in  liquor. 

"Will  you  go  away,  my  lord?"  Mr.  Esmond  said  to  him, 
imploring  him  to  quit  the  table. 

"  No,  by  G — ,"  says  my  Lord  Mohun.  "  Til  not  go  away 
for  any  man ; "  he  was  quite  flushed  with  wine  by  this  time. 

The  talk  got  round  to  the  affairs  of  3'esterday.  Webb  had 
off*ered  to  challenge  the  Commander-in-Chief:  Webb  had  been 
ill-used :  Webb  was  the  bravest,  handsomest,  vainest  man  in 
the  army.  Lord  Mohun  did  not  know  that  Esmond  was  Webb's 
aide-de-camp.  He  began  to  tell  some  stories  against  the  Gen- 
eral ;  which,  from  t'other  side  of  Esmond,  young  Castlewood 
contradicted. 


262  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

"  I  can't  bear  any  more  of  this,"  ssljs  my  Lord  Mohun. 

"Nor  can  I,  my  lord,"  sa3"s  Mr.  Esmond,  starting  up. 
"  The  story  my  Lord  Mohun  has  told  respecting  General  Webb 
is  false,  gentlemen  —  false,  I  repeat,"  and  making  a  low  bow 
to  Lord  Mohun,  and  without  a  single  word  more,  Esmond  got 
up  and  left  the  dining-room.  These  affairs  were  common 
enough  among  the  military  of  those  da3's.  There  was  a  gar- 
den behind  the  house,  and  all  the  party  turned  instantly  into 
it ;  and  the  two  gentlemen's  coats  were  off  and  their  points 
engaged  within  two  minutes  after  Esmond's  words  had  been 
spoken.  If  Captain  Esmond  had  put  Mohun  out  of  the  world, 
as  he  might,  a  villain  w^ould  have  been  punished  and  spared 
further  villanies  —  but  who  is  one  man  to  punish  another?  I 
declare  upon  my  honor  that  my  only  thought  was  to  prevent 
Lord  Mohun  from  mischief  with  Frank,  and  the  end  of  this 
meeting  was,  that  after  half  a  dozen  passes  my  lord  went  home 
with  a  hurt  which  prevented  him  from  lifting  his  right  arm  for 
three  months. 

"  Oh,  Harry  !  why  didn't  you  kill  the  villain?"  3'oung  Castle- 
wood  asked.  "  I  can't  walk  without  a  crutch  :  but  I  could  have 
met  him  on  horseback  with  sword  and  pistol."  But  Harry 
Esmond  said,  "  'Twas  best  to  have  no  man's  life  on  one's  con- 
science, not  even  that  villain's."  And  this  affair,  which  did 
not  occupy  three  minutes,  being  over,  the  gentlemen  went  back 
to  their  wine,  and  my  Lord  Mohun  to  his  quarters,  where  he 
was  laid  up  with  a  fever  which  had  spared  mischief  had  it 
proved  fatal.  And  ver}^  soon  after  this  affair  HsLvry  Esmond 
and  his  General  left  the  camp  for  London ;  whither  a  certain 
reputation  had  preceded  the  Captain,  for  my  Lady  Castle  wood 
of  Chelse}^  received  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  conquering  hero. 
She  gave  a  great  dinner  to  Mr.  Webb,  where  the  General's 
chair  was  crowned  with  laurels  ;  and  her  lad^'ship  called 
Esmond's  health  in  a  toast,  to  which  my  kind  General  was 
graciously  pleased  to  bear  the  strongest  testimou}' :  and  took 
down  a  mob  of  at  least  forty  coaches  to  cheer  our  General  as  he 
came  out  of  the  House  of  Commons,  the  day  when  he  received 
the  thanks  of  Parliament  for  his  action.  The  mob  huzza'd  and 
applauded  him,  as  well  as  the  fine  company  :  it  was  splendid  to 
see  him  waving  his  hat,  and  bowing,  and  la3'ing  his  hand  upon 
his  Order  of  Generosit3^  He  introduced  Mr.  Esmond  to  Mr. 
St.  John  and  the  Right  Honorable  Robert  Harle3',  Esquire,  as 
he  came  out  of  the  House  walking  between  them ;  and  was 
pleased  to  make  man3^  flattering  observations  regarding  Mr. 
Esmond's  behavior  during  the  three  last  campaigns. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  263 

Mr.  St.  John  (who  had  the  most  winning  presence  of  any 
man  I  ever  saw,  excepting  always  my  peerless  j-oung  Frank 
Castlewood)  said  he  had  heard  of  Mr.  Esmond  before  from 
Captain  Steele,  and  how  he  had  helped  Mr.  Addison  to  write 
his  famous  poem  of  the  ''  Campaign." 

"  'Twas  as  great  an  achievement  as  the  victory  of  Blenheim 
itself,"  Mr.  Harley  said,  who  was  famous  as  a  judge  and  patron 
of  letters,  and  so,  perhaps,  it  may  be  —  though  for  my  part  I 
think  there  are  twent}^  beautiful  lines,  but  all  the  rest  is  com- 
monplace, and  Mr.  Addison's  hymn  worth  a  thousand  such 
poems. 

All  the  town  was  indignant  at  my  Lord  Duke's  unjust  treat- 
ment of  General  Webb,  and  applauded  the  vote  of  thanks  which 
the  House  of  Commons  gave  to  the  General  for  his  victor}^  at 
Wynendael.  'Tis  certain  that  the  capture  of  Lille  was  the  con- 
sequence of  that  lucky  achievement,  and  the  humiliation  of  the 
old  French  King,  who  was  said  to  suffer  more  at  the  loss  of 
this  great  city,  than  from  an}"  of  the  former  victories  our  troops 
had  won  over  him.  And,  I  think,  no  small  part  of  Mr.  Webb's 
exultation  at  his  victory  arose  from  the  idea  that  Marlborough 
had  been  disappointed  of  a  great  bribe  the  French  King  had 
promised  him,  should  the  siege  be  raised.  The  very  sum  of 
money  offered  to  him  was  mentioned  by  the  Duke's  enemies  ; 
and  honest  Mr.  Webb  chuckled  at  the  notion,  not  onlj-  of  beat- 
ing the  French,  but  of  beating  Marlborough  too,  and  inter- 
cepting a  convoy  of  three  millions  of  French  crowns,  that  were 
on  their  way  to  t)ie  Generalissimo's  insatiable  pockets.  When 
the  General's  lady  went  to  the  Queen's  drawing-room,  all  the 
Tory  women  crowded  round  her  witn  congratulations,  and  made 
her  a  train  greater  than  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough's  own. 
Feasts  were  given  to  the  General  by  all  the  chiefs  of  the  Tory 
part}^  who  vaunted  him  as  the  Duke's  equal  in  mihtar}'  skill ; 
and  perhaps  used  the  worthy  soldier  as  their  instrument,  whilst 
he  thought  they  were  but  acknowledging  his  merits  as  a  com- 
mander. As  the  General's  aide-de-camp  and  favorite  officer. 
Mr.  Esmond  came  in  for  a  share  of  his  chief's  popularitj^  and 
was  presented  to  her  Majesty,  and  advanced  to  the  rank  of 
Lieutenant-Colonel,  at  the  request  of  his  grateful  chief. 

We  may  be  sure  there  was  one  family  in  which  any  good 
fortune  tliat  happened  to  Esmond  caused  such  a  sincere  pride 
and  pleasure,  that  he,  for  his  part,  was  thankful  he  could  make 
them  so  happy.  With  these  fond  friends,  Blenheim  and  Oude- 
narde  seemed  to  be  mere  trifling  incidents  of  the  war ;  and 
Wynendael  was  its  crowning  victor3\    Esmond's  mistress  never 


264  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

tired  to  hear  accounts  of  the  battle  ;  and  I  think  General  Webb's 
lady  grew  jealous  of  her,  for  the  General  was  for  ever  at  Ken- 
sington, and  talking  on  that  delightful  theme.  As  for  his 
aide-de-camp,  though,  no  doubt,  Esmond's  own  natural  vanity 
was  pleased  at  the  little  share  of  reputation  which  his  good 
fortune  had  won  him,  yet  it  was  chiefly  precious  to  him  (he 
may  say  so,  now  that  he  hath  long  since  outlived  it,)  because  it 
pleased  his  mistress,  and,  above  all,  because  Beatrix  valued  it. 

As  for  the  old  Dowager  of  Chelsey,  never  was  an  old  woman 
in  all  England  more  delighted  nor  more  gracious  than  she. 
Esmond  had  his  quarters  in  her  ladj^ship's  house,  where  the 
domestics  were  instructed  to  consider  him  as  their  master. 
She  bade  him  give  entertainments,  of  which  she  defrayed  the 
charges,  and  was  charmed  when  his  guests  were  carried  away 
tipsy  in  their  coaches.  She  must  have  his  picture  taken  ;  and 
accordingly  he  was  painted  b}^  Mr.  Jervas,  in  his  red  coat,  and 
smiling  upon  a  bomb-shell,  which  was  bursting  at  the  corner  of 
the  piece.  She  vowed  that  unless  he  made  a  great  match,  she 
should  never  die  easy,  and  was  for  ever  bringing  3^oung  ladies 
to  Chelsey,  with  pretty  faces  and  pretty  fortunes,  at  the  disposal 
of  the  Colonel.  He  smiled  to  think  how  times  were  altered 
with  him,  and  of  the  early  da3's  in  his  father's  lifetime,  when  a 
trembling  page  he  stood  before  her,  with  her  ladj'ship's  basin 
and  ewer,  or  crouched  in  her  coach-step.  The  onl}'  fault  she 
found  with  him  was,  that  he  was  more  sober  than  an  Esmond 
ought  to  be  ;  and  would  neither  be  carried  to  bed  by  his  valet, 
nor  lose  his  heart  to  any  beauty,  whether  of  St.  James's  or 
Covent  Garden. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  fidelity  in  love,  and  whence  the  birth 
of  it?  'Tis  a  state  of  mind  that  men  fall  into,  and  depending 
on  the  man  rather  than  the  woman.  We  love  being  in  love, 
that's  the  truth  on't.  If  we  had  not  met  Joan,  we  should  have 
met  Kate,  and  adored  her.  We  know  our  mistresses  are  no 
better  than  man}'  other  women,  nor  no  prettier,  nor  no  wiser, 
nor  no  wittier.  'Tis  not  for  these  reasons  we  love  a  woman, 
or  for  any  special  qualit}'  or  charm  I  know  of ;  we  might  as  well 
demand  that  a  lad}^  should  be  the  tallest  woman  in  the  world, 
like  the  Shropshire  giantess,*  as  that  she  should  be  a  paragon 
in  any  other  character,  before  we  began  to  love  her.  Esmond's 
mistress  had  a  thousand  faults  beside  her  charms  ;  he  knew 
both  perfectlj"  well !  She  was  imperious,  she  was  light-minded, 
she  was  flighty,  she  was  false,  she  had  no  reverence  in  her  char^ 

*  'Tis  not  thus  woman  loves :  Col.  E.  hath  owned  to  this  folly  for  a  score 
of  women  besides.  —  R. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  265 

acter ;  she  was  in  eveiything,  even  in  beaut}^,  the  contrast  of 
her  mother,  who  was  the  most  devoted  and  the  least  selfish 
of  women.  Well,  from  the  ver}^  first  moment  he  saw  her  on 
the  stairs  at  Walcote,  Esmond  knew  he  loved  Beatrix.  There 
might  be  better  women  —  he  wanted  that  one.  He  cared  for 
none  other.  Was  it  because  she  was  gloriously  beautiful? 
Beautiful  as  she  was,  he  had  heard  people  say  a  score  of  times 
in  their  company  that  Beatrix's  mother  looked  as  3'oung,  and 
was  the  handsomer  of  the  two.  Wh}^  did  her  voice  thrill  in  his 
ear  so?  She  could  not  sing  near  so  well  as  Nicolini  or  Mrs. 
Tofts  ;  na}",  she  sang  out  of  tune,  and  yet  he  liked  to  hear  her 
better  than  St.  Cecilia.  She  had  not  a  finer  complexion  than 
Mrs.  Steele,  (Dick's  wife,  whom  he  had  now  got,  and  who  ruled 
poor  Dick  with  a  rod  of  pickle,)  and  yet  to  see  her  dazzled 
Esmond ;  he  would  shut  his  e3'es,  and  the  thought  of  her  daz- 
zled him  all  the  same.  She  was  brilliant  and  lively  in  talk,  but 
not  so  incomparably  witt}'  as  her  mother,  who,  when  she  was 
cheerful,  said  the  finest  things ;  but  yet  to  hear  her,  and  to  be 
with  her,  was  Esmond's  greatest  pleasure.  Days  passed  away 
between  him  and  these  ladies,  he  scarce  knew  how.  He  poured 
his  heart  out  to  them,  so  as  he  never  could  in  any  other  corn- 
pan}',  where  he  hath  generally  passed  for  being  mood}',  or 
supercilious  and  silent.  This  societ}'*  was  more  delightful  than 
that  of  the  greatest  wits  to  him.  May  heaven  pardon  him  the 
lies  he  told  the  Dowager  at  Chelsey,  in  order  to  get  a  pretext 
for  going  away  to  Kensington  :  the  business  at  the  Ordnance 
which  he  invented ;  the  interview  with  his  General,  the  courts 
and  statesmen's  levees  which  he  didn't  frequent  and  describe ; 
who  wore  a  new  suit  on  Sunday  at  St.  James's  or  at  the  Queen's 
birthday ;  how  many  coaches  filled  the  street  at  Mr.  Harley's 
levee  ;  how  many  bottles  he  had  had  the.  honor  to  drink 
over-night  with  Mr.  St.  John  at  the  "Cocoa-Tree,"  or  at  the 
"  Garter"  with  Mr.  Walpole  and  Mr.  Steele. 

Mistress  Beatrix  Esmond  had  been  a  dozen  times  on  the 
point  of  making  great  matches,  so  the  Court  scandal  said  ;  but 
for  his  part  Esmond  never  w^ould  believe  the  stories  against 
her ;  and  came  back,  after  three  years'  absence  from  her,  not 
so  frantic  as  he  had  been  perhaps,  but  still  hungering  after 
her  and  no  other ;  still  hopeful,  still  kneeling,  with  his  heart 
in  his  hand  for  the  young  lady  to  take.  We  were  now  got  to 
1709.  She  was  near  twent3'-two  years  old,  and  three  years 
at  Court,  and  without  a  husband. 

*  And,  indeed,  so  was  his  to  them,  a  thousand  thousand  times  more 
charming,  for  where  was  bis  equal  ?  —  R. 


266  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

"  'Tis  not  for  want  of  being  asked,"  Lady  Castle  wood  said^ 
looking  into  Esmond's  heart,  as  she  could,  with  that  percep- 
tiveness  affection  gives.  "  But  she  will  make  no  mean  match, 
Harry :  she  will  not  marry  as  I  would  have  her ;  the  person 
whom  I  should  like  to  call  my  son,  and  Henry  Esmond  knows 
who  that  is,  is  best  served  b}^  my  not  pressing  his  claim.  Bea- 
trix is  so  wilful,  that  what  I  would  urge  on  her,  she  would  be 
sure  to  resist.  The  man  who  would  marry  her,  will  not  be 
happy  with  her,  unless  he  be  a  great  person,  and  can  put  her 
in  a  great  position.  Beatrix  loves  admiration  more  than  love  ; 
and  longs,  beyond  all  things,  for  command.  Wh}^  should  a 
mother  speak  so  of  her  child?  You  are  my  son,  too,  Harrj^ 
You  should  know  the  truth  about  your  sister.  I  thought  you 
might  cure  yourself  of  3'our  passion,"  my  lady  added,  fondly. 
^' Other  people  can  cure  themselves  of  that  folly,  you  know. 
But  I  see  3^ou  are  still  as  infatuated  as  ever.  When  we  read 
your  name  in  the  Gazette,  I  pleaded  for  3'ou,  my  poor  boy. 
Poor  boy,  indeed !  You  are  growing  a  grave  old  gentleman, 
now,  and  I  am  an  old  woman.  IShe  likes  3'our  fame. well 
enough,  and  she  likes  3'Our  person.  She  says  3'ou  have  w4t, 
and  fire,  and  good-breeding,  and  are  more  natural  than  the 
fine  gentlemen  of  the  Court.  But  this  is  not  enough.  She 
wants  a  commander-in-chief,  and  not  a  colonel.  Were  a  duke 
to  ask  her,  she  would  leave  an  earl  whom  she  had  promised. 
I  told  you  so  before.  I  know  not  how  m3^  poor  girl  is  so 
worldly." 

"  Well,"  says  Esmond,  "a  man  can  but  give  his  best  and 
his  all.  She  has  that  from  me.  What  little  reputation  I  have 
won,  I  swear  I  cared  for  it  because  I  thought  Beatrix  would 
be  pleased  with  it.  What  care  I  to  be  a  colonel  or  a  general? 
Think  3'ou  'twill  matter  a  few  score  years  hence,  what  our  fool- 
ish honors  to-day  are?  I  would  have  had  a  little  fame,  that 
she  might  wear  it  in  her  hat.  If  I  had  an3^thing  better,  I  would 
endow  her  with  it.  If  she  wants  my  life,  I  would  give  it  her. 
If  she  marries  another,  I  will  say  God  bless  him.  I  make  no 
boast,  nor  no  complaint.  I  think  m3^  fidelit3^  is  folly,  pei-haps. 
But  so  it  is.  I  cannot  help  m3^self.  I  love  her.  You  are  a 
thousand  times  better :  the  fondest,  the  fairest,  the  dearest  of 
women.  Sure,  m3^  dear  \sidy,  I  see  all  Beatrix's  faults  as  well 
as  3^ou  do.  But  she  is  my  fate.  'Tis  endurable.  I  shall  not 
die  for  not  having  her.  I  think  I  should  be  no  happier  if  I 
won  her.  Que  voulez-vous?  as  my  Lady  of  Chelse3'  would 
say.     Je  I'aime." 

^'I  wish  she  would  have  3'ou,"  said  Harry's  fond  mistress, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  267 

giving  a  hand  to  him.  He  kissed  the  fair  hand  ('twas  the  pret- 
tiest dimpled  Kttle  hand  in  the  world,  and  my  Lady  Castle  wood, 
though  now  almost  forty  years  old,  did  not  look  to  be  within 
ten  years  of  her  age).  He  kissed  and  kept  her  fair  hand,  as 
they  talked  together. 

"Why,"  sa3's  he,  "should  she  hear  me?  She  knows 
what  I  would  say.  Far  or  near,  she  knows  I'm  her  slave. 
I  have  sold  myself  for  nothing,  it  may  be.  Well,  'tis  the 
price  I  choose  to  take.  I  am  worth  nothing,  or  I  am  worth 
all." 

"You  are  such  a  treasure,"  Esmond's  mistress  was  pleased 
to  say,  "  that  the  woman  who  has  3'our  love,  shouldn't  change 
it  away  against  a  kingdom,  I  think.  I  am  a  countr3'-bred 
woman,  and  cannot  say  but  the  ambitions  of  the  town  seem 
mean  to  me.  I  never  was  awe-stricken  by  my  Lad}'  Duchess's 
rank  and  finer}',  or  afraid,''  she  added,  with  a  sly  laugh,  "  of 
anj'thing  but  her  temper.  I  hear  of  Court  ladies  who  pine  be- 
cause her  Majest}'  looks  cold  on  them ;  and  great  noblemen 
who  would  give  a  hmb  that  they  might  wear  a  garter  on  the 
other.  This  worldhness,  which  I  can't  comprehend,  was  born 
with  Beatrix,  who,  on  the  first  day  of  her  waiting,  was  a  per- 
fect courtier.  We  are  like  sisters,  and  she  the  eldest  sister, 
somehow.  She  tells  me  I  have  a  mean  spirit.  I  laugh,  and 
say  she  adores  a  coach-and-six.  I  cannot  reason  her  out  of 
her  ambition.  'Tis  natural  to  her,  as  to  me  to  love  quiet,  and 
be  indifferent  about  rank  and  riches.  What  are  they,  Harr}'? 
and  for  how  long  do  they  last?  Our  home  is  not  here."  She 
smiled  as  she  spoke,  and  looked  like  an  angel  that  was  only  on 
earth  on  a  visit.  "  Our  home  is  where  the  just  are,  and  where 
our  sins  and  sorrows  enter  not.  M}^  father  used  to  rebuke  me, 
and  saj'  that  I  was  too  hopeful  about  heaven.  But  I  cannot 
help  my  nature,  and  grow  obstinate  as  I  grow  to  be  an  old 
woman ;  and  as  I  love  my  children  so,  sure  our  Father  loves 
us  with  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  times  greater  love.  It  must 
be  that  we  shall  meet  3'onder,  and  be  happ3\  Yes,  you  —  and 
mj^  children,  and  mj'  dear  lord.  Do  you  know,  Harr}-,  since 
his  death,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  as  if  his  love  came  back 
to  me,  and  that  we  are  parted  no  more.  Perhaps  he  is  here 
now,  Harr}'  —  I  think  he  is.  Forgiven  I  am  sure  he  is  :  even 
Mr.  Atterbury  absolved  him,  and  he  died  forgiving.  Oh,  what 
a  noble  heart  he  had  !  How  generous  he  was  !  I  was  but  fif- 
teen and  a  child  when  he  married  me.  How  good  he  was  to 
stoop  to  me  !  He  was  always  good  to  the  poor  and  humble." 
She  stopped,  then  presently,  with  a  peculiar  expression,  as  if 


268  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

her  eyes  were  looking  into  heaven,  and  saw  m^'  lord  there,  she 
smiled,  and  gave  a  Httle  laugh.  "I  laugh  to  see  you,  sir," 
she  sa3's ;  "when  you  come,  it  seems  as  if  3'ou  never  were 
away."  One  may  put  her  words  down,  and  remember  them, 
but  how  describe  her  sweet  tones,  sweeter  than  music  ! 

My  3^oung  lord  did  not  come  home  at  the  end  of  the  cam- 
paign, and  wrote  that  he  was  kept  at  Bruxelles  on  military 
dut}^  Indeed,  I  believe  he  was  engaged  in  laying  siege  to  a 
certain  lad}',  who  was  of  the  suite  of  Madame  de  Soissons,  the 
Prince  of  Savoy's  mother,  who  was  just  dead,  and  who,  like 
the  Fiemisli  fortresses,  was  taken  and  retaken  a  great  number 
of  times  during  the  war,  and  occupied  by  French,  English,  and 
Imperialists.  Of  course,  Mr.  Esmond  did  not  think  fit  to 
enlighten  Lady  Castlewood  regarding  the  young  scapegrace's 
doings  :  nor  had  he  said  a  word  about  the  affair  with  Lord 
Mohun,  knowing  how  abhorrent  that  man's  name  was  to  his 
mistress.  Frank  did  not  waste  much  time  or  money  on  pen 
and  ink  ;  and,  when  Harry  came  home  with  his  General,  only 
writ  two  lines  to  his  mother,  to  say  his  wound  in  the  leg  was 
almost  healed,  that  he  would  keep  his  coming  of  age  next  j^ear 
—  that  the  dutj^  aforesaid  would  keep  him  at  Bruxelles,  and 
that  Cousin  Harry  would  tell  all  the  news. 

But  from  Bruxelles,  knowing  how  the  Lady  Castlewood 
always  liked  to  have  a  letter  about  the  famous  29th  of  Decem- 
ber, m}^  lord  writ  her  a  long  and  full  one,  and  in  this  he  must 
have  described  the  aff'air  with  Mohun  ;  for  when  Mr.  Esmond 
came  to  visit  his  mistress  one  day,  early  in  the  new  year,  to 
his  great  wonderment,  she  and  her  daughter  both  came  up  and 
saluted  him,  and  after  them  the  Dowager  of  Chelse}',  too, 
whose  chairman  had  just  brought  her  lad^'ship  from  her  village 
to  Kensington  across  the  fields.  After  this  honor,  I  sa}^  from 
the  two  ladies  of  Castlewood,  the  Dowager  came  forward  in 
great  state,  with  her  grand  tall  head-dress  of  King  James's 
reign,  that  she  never  forsook,  and  said,  ''Cousin  Henr^^  all 
our  family  have  met ;  and  we  thank  3'ou,  cousin,  for  your 
noble  conduct  towards  the  head  of  our  house."  And  pointing 
to  her  blushing  cheek,  she  made  Mr.  Esmond  aware  that  he 
was  to  enjoy  the  rapture  of  an  embrace  there.  Having  saluted 
one  cheek,  she  turned  to  him  the  other.  "  Cousin  Harry," 
said  both  the  other  ladies,  in  a  little  chorus,"  we  thank  you  for 
3'our  noble  conduct ; "  and  then  Harr}'  became  aware  that  the 
story  of  the  Lille  aflfair  had  come  to  his  kinswomen's  ears. 
It  pleased  him  to  hear  them  all  saluting  him  as  one  of  their 
family. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  269 

The  tables  of  the  dining-room  were  laid  for  a  great  enter- 
tainment ;  and  the  ladies  were  in  gala  dresses  —  mj^  Lady  of 
Chelse}^  in  her  highest  tour,  my  Lady  Viscountess  out  of 
black,  and  looking  fair  and  happ}^  a  ravir ;  and  the  Maid 
of  Honor  attired  with  that  splendor  which  naturally  distin- 
guished her,  and  wearing  on  her  beautiful  breast  the  French 
officer's  star  which  Frank  had  sent  home  after  Ramillies. 

"  You  see,  'tis  a  gala  day  with  us,"  says  she,  glancing  down 
to  the  star  complacentl}^,  "  and  we  have  our  orders  on.  Does 
not  mamma  look  charming?  'Twas  I  dressed  her!  "  Indeed, 
Esmond's  dear  mistress,  blushing  as  he  looked  at  her,  with  her 
beautiful  fair  hair,  and  an  elegant  dress  according  to  the 
mode^  appeared  to  have  the  shape  and  complexion  of  a  girl 
of  twenty. 

On  the  table  was  a  fine  sword,  with  a  red  velvet  scabbard, 
and  a  beautiful  chased  silver  handle,  with  a  blue  ribbon  for  a 
sword-knot.  "What  is  this?"  says  the  Captain,  going  up  to 
look  at  this  pretty  piece. 

Mrs.  Beatrix  advanced  towards  it.  "  Kneel  down,"  says 
she  :  "  we  dub  you  our  knight  with  this  "  —  and  she  waved  the 
sword  over  his  head.  "  My  Lady  Dowager  hath  given  the 
sword  ;  and  I  give  the  ribbon,  and  mamma  hath  sewn  on 
the  fringe." 

"  Put  the  sword  on  him,  Beatrix,"  says  her  mother.  "  You 
are  our  knight,  Harry  —  our  true  knight.  Take  a  mother's 
thanks  and  prayers  for  defending  her  son,  my  dear,  dear  friend." 
She  could  say  no  more,  and  even  the  Dowager  was  affected, 
for  a  couple  of  rebellious  tears  made  sad  marks  down  those 
Wrinkled  old  roses  which  Esmond  had  just  been  allowed  to 
salute. 

*'  We  had  a  letter  from  dearest  Frank,"  his  mother  said, 
"  three  days  since,  whilst  3^ou  were  on  your  visit  to  your  friend 
Captain  Steele,  at  Hampton.  He  told  us  all  that  you  had 
done,  and  how  nobly  you  had  put  yourself  between  him  and 
that  —  that  wretch." 

"  And  I  adopt  j^ou  from  this  day,"  saj's  the  Dowager,  "  and 
I  wish  I  was  richer,  for  3'our  sake,  son  Esmond,"  she  added 
with  a  wave  of  her  hand ;  and  as  Mr.  Esmond  dutifull}^  went 
down  on  his  knee  before  her  ladyship,  she  cast  her  eyes  up  to 
the  ceihng,  (the  gilt  chandelier,  and  the  twelve  wax-candles  in 
it,  for  the  party  was  numerous,)  and  invoked  a  blessing  from 
that  quarter  upon  the  newly  adopted  son. 

"  Dear  Frank,"  says  the  other  viscountess,  "  how  fond  he  is 
of  his  military  profession !     He  is  studying  fortification  very 


270  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND. 

hard.  I  wish  he  were  here.  We  shall  keep  his  coming  of  age 
at  Castlewood  next  year." 

"  If  the  campaign  permit  us,"  says  Mr.  Esmond. 

"  I  am  never  afraid  when  he  is  with  you,"  cries  the  boy's 
mother.     "  I  am  sure  my  Henry  will  always  defend  him." 

"  But  there  will  be  a  peace  before  next  year ;  we  know  it 
for  certain,"  cries  the  Maid  of  Honor.  "  Lord  Marlborough 
will  be  dismissed,  and  that  horrible  duchess  turned  out  of 
all  her  places.  Her  Majesty  won't  speak  to  her  now.  Did 
3^ou  see  her  at  Bush3%  Harry?  She  is  furious,  and  she 
ranges  about  the  park  like  a  lioness,  and  tears  people's  eyes 
out." 

"And  the  Princess  Anne  will  send  for  somebody,"  says  my 
Lad}^  of  Chelse}^  taking  out  her  medal  and  kissing  it. 

"  Did  you  see  the  King  at  Oudenarde,  Hany  ?  "  his  mistress 
asked.  She  was  a  staunch  Jacobite,  and  would  no  more  have 
thought  of  denj'ing  her  king  than  her  God. 

"  I  saw  the  young  Hanoverian  only,"  Harry  said.  "The 
Chevaher  de  St.  George  —  " 

"  The  King,  sir,  the  King  !  "  said  the  ladies  and  Miss  Bea- 
trix ;  and  she  clapped  her  prettv  hands,  and  cried,  "Vive 
le  Roy." 

By  this  time  there  came  a  thundering  knock,  that  drove  in 
the  doors  of  the  house  almost.  It  was  three  o'clock,  and  the 
company  were  arriving ;  and  presently  the  servant  announced 
Captain  Steele  and  his  lad}". 

Captain  and  Mrs.  Steele,  who  were  the  first  to  arrive,  had 
driven  to  Kensington  from  their  countr3'-house,  the  Hovel  at 
Hampton  Wick.  "Not  from  our  mansion  in  Bloomsbur}^ 
Square,"  as  Mrs.  Steele  took  care  to  inform  the  ladies.  Indeed 
Harry  had  ridden  away  from  Hampton  that  ver}-  morning, 
leaving  the  couple  by  the  ears  ;  for  from  the  chamber  where  life 
lay,  in  a  bed  that  was  none  of  the  cleanest,  and  kept  awake  by 
the  com  pan}"  which  he  had  in  his  own  bed,  and  the  quarrel 
which  was  going  on  in  the  next  room,  he  could  hear  both  night 
and  morning  the  curtain  lecture  which  Mrs.  Steele  was  in  the 
habit  of  administering  to  poor  Dick. 

At  night  it  did  not  matter  so  much  for  the  culprit ;  Dick 
was  fuddled,  and  when  in  that  way  no  scolding  could  interrupt 
his  benevolence.  Mr.  Esmond  could  hear  him  coaxing  and 
speaking  in  that  maudlin  manner,  which  punch  and  claret  pro- 
duce, to  his  beloved  Prue,  and  beseeching  her  to  remember 
that  there  was  a  distiwisht  officer  ithe  rex  roob^  who  would  over- 
hear her.     She  went  on,  nevertheless,  calling  him  a  drunken 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  271 

wretch,  and  was  only  interrupted  in  her  harangues  by  the 
Captain's  snoring. 

In  the  morning,  the  unhappy  victim  awoke  to  a  headache 
and  consciousness,  and  the  dialogue  of  the  night  was  resumed. 
"  Wh}^  do  3'ou  bring  captains  home  to  dinner  when  there's  not 
a  guinea  in  the  house?  How  am  I  to  give  dinners  when  you 
leave  me  without  a  shilling?  How  am  I  to  go  traipsing  to 
Kensington  in  my  yellow  satin  sack  before  all  the  fine  com- 
pany ?  I've  nothing  fit  to  put  on  ;  I  never  have  : "  and  so  the 
dispute  went  on  —  Mr.  Esmond  interrupting  the  talk  when  it 
seemed  to  be  growing  too  intimate  by  blowing  his  nose  as 
loudly  as  ever  he  could,  at  the  sound  of  which  trumpet  there 
came  a  lull.  But  Dick  was  charming,  though  his  wife  was 
odious,  and  'twas  to  give  Mr.  Steele  pleasure,  that  the  ladies  of 
Castlewood,  who  were  ladies  of  no  small  fashion,  invited  Mrs. 
Steele. 

Besides  the  Captain  and  his  lady,  there  was  a  great  and 
notable  assemblage  of  company :  my  Lady  of  Chelsey  having 
sent  her  lackej's  and  liveries  to  aid  the  modest  attendance  at 
Kensington.  There  was  Lieutenant-General  Webb,  Harrj^'s 
kind  patron,  of  whom  the  Dowager  took  possession,  and  who 
resplended  in  velvet  and  gold  lace  ;  there  was  Harry's  new  ac- 
quaintance, the  Right  Honorable  Henrj^  St.  John,  Esquire,  the 
General's  kinsman,  who  was  charmed  with  the  Lady  Castle- 
wood, even  more  than  with  her  daughter ;  there  was  one  of 
the  greatest  noblemen  in  the  kingdom,  the  Scots  Duke  of  Ham- 
ilton, just  created  Duke  of  Brandon  in  England  ;  and  two  other 
noble  lords  of  the  Tor}"  party,  my  Lord  Ashburnham,  and  an- 
other I  have  forgot ;  and  for  ladies,  her  Grace  the  Duchess  of 
Ormonde  and  her  daughters,  the  Lady  Mary  and  the  Lady 
Betty,  the  former  one  of  Mistress  Beatrix's  colleagues  in  wait- 
ing on  the  Queen. 

' '  What  a  party  of  Tories  !  "  whispered  Captain  Steele  to  Es- 
mond, as  we  were  assembled  in  the  parlor  before  dinner.  Indeed, 
all  the  company  present,  save  Steele,  were  of  that  faction. 

Mr.  St.  John  made  his  special  compliments  to  Mrs.  Steele, 
and  so  charmed  her  that  she  declared  she  would  have  Steele  a 
Tory  too. 

"  Or  will  3'ou  have  me  a  Whig?"  saj^s  Mr.  St.  John.  *'  I 
think,  madam,  3'ou  could  convert  a  man  to  anything." 

'*  If  Mr.  St.  John  ever  comes  to  Bloomsbury  Square  I  will 
teach  him  what  I  know,"  says  Mrs.  Steele,  dropping  her  hand- 
some eyes.     "  Do  you  know  Bloomsbury  Square?  " 

"Do  I  know  the  Mall?     Do  I  know  the  Opera?    Do  I 


272  THE  HISTORY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

know  the  reigning  toast?  Why,  Bloomsbary  is  the  very  height 
of  the  mode,"  says  Mr.  St.  John.  "  'Tis  ras  in  urhe.  You 
have  gardens  all  the  way  to  Hampstead,  and  palaces  round 
about  you —  Southampton  House  and  Montague  House." 

"Where  you  wretches  go  and  fight  duels,"  cries  Mrs. 
Steele. 

"  Of  which  the  ladies  are  the  cause  !  "  says  her  entertainer. 
"  Madam,  is  Dick  a  good  swordsman?  How  charming  the 
'  Tatler  '  is  !  We  all  recognized  3'our  portrait  in  the  49th  num- 
ber, and  I  have  been  dying  to  know  you  ever  since  I  read  it. 
'  Aspasia  must  be  allowed  to  be  the  first  of  the  beauteous  order 
of  love.'  Doth  not  the  passage  run  so?  'In  this  accomplished 
lady  love  is  the  constant  effect,  though  it  is  never  the  design  ; 
yet  though  her  mien  carries  much  more  invitation  than  com- 
mand, to  behold  her  is  an  immediate  check  to  loose  behavior, 
and  to  love  her  is  a  liberal  education.' " 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  "  says  Mrs.  Steele,  who  did  not  seem  to  un- 
derstand a  word  of  what  the  gentleman  was  saying. 

"  Who  could  fail  to  be  accomplished  under  such  a  mistress?  " 
saj's  Mr.  St.  John,  still  gallant  and  bowing. 

"  Mistress  !  upon  my  word,  sir  !  "  cries  the  lady.  "  If  you 
mean  me,  sir,  I  would  have  you  know  that  I  am  the  Captain's 
wife." 

"  Sure  we  all  know  it,"  answers  Mr.  St.  John,  keeping  his 
countenance  very  gravely  ;  and  Steele  broke  in  saying,  "  'Twas 
not  about  Mrs.  Steele  I  writ  that  paper  —  though  I  am  sure  she 
is  worthy  of  any  compliment  I  can  pay  her  —  but  of  the  Lad}^ 
Elizabeth  Hastings." 

"  I  hear  Mr.  Addison  is  equally  famous  as  a  wit  and  a 
poet,"  says  Mr.  St.  John.  "  Is  it  true  that  his  hand  is  to  be 
found  in  your  '  Tatler,'  Mr.  Steele?" 

"  Whether  'tis  the  sublime  or  the  humorous,  no  man  can 
come  near  him,"  cries  Steele. 

"  A  fig,  Dick,  for  yonv  Mr.  Addison  !  "  cries  out  his  lady : 
"  a  gentleman  who  gives  himself  such  airs  and  holds  his  head 
so  high  now.  I  hope  your  ladyship  thinks  as  I  do :  I  can't 
bear  those  very  fair  men  with  white  eyelashes  —  a  black  man 
for  me."  (All  the  black  men  at  table  applauded,  and  made 
Mrs.  Steele  a  bow  for  this  compliment.)  "As  for  this  Mr. 
Addison,"  she  went  on,  "he  comes  to  dine  with  the  Captain 
sometimes,  never  says  a  word  to  me,  and  then  they  walk  up 
stairs  both  tipsy,  to  a  dish  of  tea.  I  remember  your  Mr.  Addi- 
son when  he  had  but  one  coat  to  his  back,  ana  that  with  a  patch 
at  the  elbow." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  273 

''  Indeed —  a  patch  at  the  elbow  !  You  interest  me,"  says 
Mr.  St.  John.  ''  'Tis  charming  to  hear  of  one  man  of  letters 
from  the  charming  wife  of  another." 

"La,  1  could  tell  you  ever  so  much  about  'em,"  continues 
the  voluble  lady.  ''What  do  you  think  the  Captain  has  got 
now?  —  a  little  hunchback  fellow  —  a  little  hop-o'-my-thumb 
creature  that  he  calls  a  poet  —  a  little  Popish  brat !  " 

"Hush,  there  are  two  in  the  room,"  whispers  her  com- 
panion. 

"Well,  I  call  him  Popish  because  his  name  is  Pope,"  says 
the  lady.  "'Tis  only  my  joking  way.  And  this  little  dwarf 
of  a  fellow  has  wrote  a  pastoral  poem  —  all  about  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses,  3'ou  know." 

"  A  shepherd  should  have  a  little  crook,"  says  my  mistress, 
laughing  from  her  end  of  the  table  :  on  which  Mrs.  Steele  said, 
"  She  did  not  know,  but  the  Captain  brought  home  this  queer 
little  creature  when  she  was  in  bed  with  her  first  boy,  and  it 
was  a  mercy  he  had  come  no  sooner ;  and  Dick  raved  about  his 
germs^  and  was  always  raving  about  some  nonsense  or  other." 

"  Which  of  the  '  Tatlers '  do  you  prefer,  Mrs.  Steele?  "  asked 
Mr.  St.  John. 

"I  never  read  but  one,  and  think  it  all  a  pack  of  rubbish, 
sir,"  says  the  laclj'.  "  Such  stuff  about  Bickerstaffe,  and  Distaff, 
and  Quarterstaff,  as  it  all  is  !  There's  the  Captain  going  on 
still  with  the  Burgundy  —  I  know  he'll  be  tipsy  before  he  stops 
—  Captain  Steele  !  " 

"  I  drink  to  3^our  eyes,  my  dear,"  says  the  Captain,  who 
seemed  to  think  his  wife  charming,  and  to  receive  as  genuine 
all  the  satiric  conipliments  which  Mr.  St.  John  paid  her. 

All  this  while  the  Maid  of  Honor  had  been  tr3ing  to  get 
Mr.  Esmond  to  talk,  and  no  doubt  voted  him  a  dull  fellow. 
For,  by  sgme  mistake,  just  as  he  was  going  to  pop  into  the  vacant 
place,  he  was  placed  far  away  from  Beatrix's  chair,  who  sat 
between  his  Grace  and  my  Lord  Ashburnham,  and  shrugged  her 
lovel}'  white  shoulders,  and  cast  a  look  as  if  to  sa}',  "  Vity  me," 
to  her  cousin.  My  Lord  Duke  and  his  3'oung  neighbor  were 
presently"  in  a  very  animated  and  close  conversation.  Mrs. 
Beatrix  could  no  more  help  using  her  e^^es  than  the  sun  can 
help  shining,  and  setting  those  it  shines  on  a-burning.  Bj^  the 
time  the  first  course  was  done  the  dinner  seemed  long  to 
Esmond ;  by  the  time  the  soup  came  he  fancied  the}'  must 
have  been  hours  at  table  :  and  as  for  the  sweets  and  jellies  he 
thought  the}^  never  would  be  done. 

At  length  the  ladies  rose,  Beatrix  throwing  a  Parthian  glance 

18 


274  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

at  her  duke  as  she  retreated  ;  a  fresh  bottle  and  glasses  were 
fetched,  and  toasts  were  called.  Mr.  St.  John  asked  his  Grace 
the  Duke  of  Hamilton  and  the  company  to  drink  to  the  health 
of  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Brandon.  Another  lord  gave  General 
Webb's  health,  ''and  maj^  he  get  the  command  the  bravest 
officer  in  the  world  deserves."  Mr.  Webb  thanked  the  compan}^, 
complimented  his  aide-de-camp,  and  fought  his  famous  battle 
over  again. 

*'  II  est  fatiguant,"  whispers  Mr.  St.  John,  "  avec  sa  trom- 
pette  de  Wynendael." 

Captain  Steele,  who  was  not  of  our  side,  loj'all}"  gave  the 
health  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  the  greatest  general  of  the 
age. 

"I  drink  to  the  greatest  general  with  all  m}^  heart,"  saj^s 
Mr.  Webb;  "  there  can  be  no  gainsaying  that  character  of  him. 
My  glass  goes  to  the  General,  and  not  to  the  Duke,  Mr.  Steele." 
And  the  stout  old  gentleman  emptied  his  bumper ;  to  which 
Dick  replied  b}'  filling  and  emptying  a  pair  of  brimmers,  one 
for  the  General  and  one  for  the  Duke. 

And  now  his  Grace  of  Hamilton,  rising  up  with  flashing 
eyes  (we  had  all  been  drinking  pretty  freel}'),  proposed  a  toast 
to  the  lovel}^  to  the  incomparable  Mrs.  Beatrix  Esmond  ;  we 
all  drank  it  with  cheers,  and  m}-  Lord  Ashburnham  especially, 
with  a  shout  of  enthusiasm. 

"What  a  pity  there  is  a  Duchess  of  Hamilton,"  whispers 
St.  John,  who  drank  more  wine  and  yet  was  more  steady  than 
most  of  the  others,  and  we  entered  the  drawing-room  where  the 
ladies  were  at  their  tea.  As  for  poor  Dick,  we  were  obliged  to 
leave  him  alone  at  the  dining-table,  where  he  was  hiccupping 
out  the  lines  from  the  "  Campaign,"  in  which  the  greatest  poet 
had  celebrated  the  greatest  general  in  the  world ;  and  Harry 
Esmond  found  him,  half  an  hour  afterwards,  in  a  more  advanced 
stage  of  liquor,  and  weeping  about  the  treacher}'  of  Tom  Boxer. 

The  drawing-room  was  all  dark  to  poor  Harr}-,  in  spite  of 
the  grand  illumination.  Beatrix  scarce  spoke  to  him.  When 
my  Lord  Duke  went  away,  she  practised  upon  the  next  in  rank, 
and  plied  my  young  Lord  Ashburnham  with  all  the  fire  of  her 
e3^es  and  the  fascinations  of  her  wit.  Most  of  the  part}'  were 
set  to  cards,  and  Mr.  St.  John,  after  3'awning  in  the  face  of 
Mrs.  Steele,  whom  he  did  not  care  to  pursue  any  more  ;  and 
talking  in  his  most  brilliant  animated  way  to  Lady  Castlewood, 
whom  he  pronounced  to  be  beautiful,  of  a  far  higher  order  of 
beauty  than  her  daughter,  presently  took  his  leave,  and  went 
his  way.     The  rest  of  the  company  speedily  followed,  my  Lord 


THE  HISTORY  O^  HENRY  ESMOl^D.  275 

Ashburnham  the  last,  throwing  tier}"  glances  at  the  smiling  3'oung 
temptress,  who  had  bewitched  more  hearts  than  his  in  her  thrall. 

No  doubt,  as  a  kinsman  of  the  house,  Mr.  Esmond  thought 
fit  to  be  the  last  of  all  in  it ;  he  remained  after  the  coaches  had 
rolled  away  —  after  his  dowager  aunt's  chair  and  flambeaux  had 
marched  off  in  the  darkness  towards  Chelsey,  and  the  town's 
people  had  gone  to  bed,  who  had  been  drawn  into  the  square 
to  gape  at  the  unusual  assemblage  of  chairs  and  chariots,  lack- 
ej'S,  and  torchmen.  The  poor  mean  wretch  lingered  yet  for 
a  few  minutes,  to  see  whether  the  girl  would  vouchsafe  him  a 
smile,  or  a  parting  word  of  consolation.  But  her  enthusiasm 
of  the  morning  was  quite  died  out,  or  she  chose  to  be  in  a  differ- 
ent mood.  She  fell  to  joking  about  the  dowd}^  appearance  of 
Lady  Betty,  and  mimicked  the  vulgarit}^  of  Mrs.  Steele  ;  and 
then  she  put  up  her  little  hand  to  her  mouth  and  3'awned,  lighted 
a  taper,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  dropping  Mr.  Esmond 
a  sauc}'  curts}',  sailed  off  to  bed. 

'•  Ttie  day  began  so  well,  Henr}^,  that  I  hoped  it  might  have 
ended  better,"  was  all  the  consolation  that  poor  Esmond's  fond 
mistress  could  give  him ;  and  as  he  trudged  home  through  the 
dark  alone,  he  thought  with  bitter  rage  in  his  heart,  and  a  feel- 
ing of  almost  revolt  against  the  sacrifice  he  had  made  :  —  "  She 
would  have  me,"  thought  he,  "had  I  but  a  name  to  give  her. 
But  for  Th}^  promise  to  her  father,  I  might  have  my  rank  and 
my  mistress  too." 

I  suppose  a  man's  vanity  is  stronger  than  an}^  other  passion 
in  him  ;  for  I  blush,  even  now,  as  I  recall  the  humiliation  of 
those  distant  days,  the  memory  of  which  still  smarts,  though 
the  fever  of  balked  desire  has  passed  away  more  than  a  score 
of  years  ago.  When  the  writer's  descendants  come  to  read 
this  memoir,  I  wonder  will  they  have  lived  to  experience  a  sim- 
ilar defeat  and  shame?  Will  they  ever  have  knelt  to  a  woman 
who  has  listened  to  them,  and  played  with  them,  and  laughed 
with  them  —  who  beckoning  them  with  lures  and  caresses,  and 
with  Yes  smihng  from  her  ej'cs,  has  tricked  them  on  to  their 
knees,  and  turned  her  back  and  left  them.  All  this  shame  Mr. 
Esmond  had  to  undergo ;  and  he  submitted,  and  revolted,  and 
present!}^  came  crouching  back  for  more. 

After  this  feste,  m}^  3^oung  Lord  Ashburnham's  coach  was 
for  ever  roUing  in  and  out  of  Kensington  Square  ;  his  lad}'- 
mother  came  to  visit  Esmond's  mistress,  and  at  every  assembly 
in  the  town,  wherever  the  Maid  of  Honor  made  her  appearance, 
you  might  be  pretty  sure  to  see  the  young  gentleman  in  a  new 
suit  every  week,  and  decked  out  in  all  the  finery  that  his  tailor 


t!76  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND. 

or  embroiderer  could  furnish  for  him.  My  lord  was  for  ever 
psLjing  Mr.  Esmond  compliments  :  bidding  him  to  dinner,  offer- 
ing him  horses  to  ride,  and  giving  him  a  thousand  uncouth 
marks  of  respect  and  good-will.  At  last,  one  night  at  the 
coffee-house,  whither  my  lord  came  considerably  flushed  and 
excited  with  drink,  he  rushes  up  to  Mr.  Esmond,  and  cries 
out  —  "  Give  me  joy,  my  dearest  Colonel ;  I  am  the  happiest  of 
men." 

"  The  happiest  of  men  needs  no  dearest  colonel  to  give  him 
jov,"  says  Mr.  Esmond.  "  What  is  the  cause  of  this  supreme 
felicity?" 

"Haven't  you  heard?"  says  he.  "Don't  you  know?  I 
thought  the  family  told  3'ou  everything :  the  adorable  Beatrix 
hath  promised  to  be  mine." 

"What!"  cries  out  Mr.  Esmond,  who  had  spent  happy 
hours  with  Beatrix  that  very  morning  —  had  writ  verses  for  her, 
that  she  had  sung  at  the  harpsichord. 

"  Yes,"  says  he  ;  "I  waited  on  her  to-day.  I  saw  j-ou  walk- 
ing towards  Knightsbridge  as  I  passed  in  my  coach ;  and  she 
looked  so  lovel}^  and  spoke  so  kind,  that  I  couldn't  help  going 
down  on  my  knees,  and  —  and  —  sure  I  am  the  happiest  of  men 
in  all  the  world  ;  and  I'm  xery  young ;  but  she  says  I  shall  get 
older :  and  j^ou  know  I  shall  be  of  age  in  four  months  ;  and 
there's  very  little  difference  between  us  ;  and  I'm  so  happy.  I 
should  like  to  treat  the  company  to  something.  Let  us  have  a 
bottle  —  a  dozen  bottles  —  and  drink  the  health  of  the  finest 
woman  in  England." 

Esmond  left  the  3'oung  lord  tossing  off  bumper  after  bumper, 
and  strolled  away  to  Kensington  to  ask  whether  the  news  was 
true.  'Twas  only  too  sure :  his  mistress's  sad,  compassionate 
face  told  him  the  storj^ ;  and  then  she  related  what  particulars 
of  it  she  knew,  and  how  my  young  lord  had  made  his  offer,  half 
an  hour  after  Esmond  went  away  that  morning,  and  in  the  very 
room  where  the  song  lay  yet  on  the  harpsichord,  which  Esmond 
had  writ,  and  they  had  sung  together. 


BOOK  III. 

CONTAINING   THE  END   OF  MR.  ESMOND'S  ADVENTURES   IN 
ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I   COME   TO    AN    END   OF   MY  BATTLES    AND   BRUISES. 

That  feverish  desire  to  gain  a  little  reputation  which  Es- 
mond had  had,  left  him  now  perhaps  that  he  had  attained  some 
portion  of  his  wish,  and  the  great  motive  of  his  ambition  was 
over.  His  desire  for  military  honor  was  that  it  might  raise  him 
in  Beatrix's  eyes.  'Twas  next  to  nobility  and  wealth,  the  only 
kind  of  rank  she  valued.  It  was  th^  stake  quickest  won  or 
lost  too ;  for  law  is  a  very  long  game  that  requires  a  life  to 
practise  ;  and  to  be  distinguished  in  letters  or  the  Church  would 
not  have  forwarded  the  poor  gentleman's  plans  in  the  least. 
So  he  had  no  suit  to  play  but  the  red  one,  and  he  plaj^ed  it ; 
and  this,  in  truth,  was  the  reason  of  his  speedy  promotion  ;  for 
he  exposed  himself  more  than  most  gentlemen  do,  and  risked 
more  to  win  mOre.  Is  he  the  onl}'  man  that  hath  set  his  life 
against  a  stake  which  may  be  not  worth  the  winning?  Another 
risks  his  hfe  (and  his  honor,  too,  sometimes,)  against  a  bundle 
of  bank-notes,  or  a  yard  of  blue  ribbon,  or  a  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment ;  and  some  for  the  mere  pleasure  and  excitement  of  the 
sport ;  as  a  field  of  a  hundred  huntsmen  will  do,  each  out-bawl- 
ing and  out-galloping  the  other  at  the  tail  of  a  dirty  fox,  that  is 
to  be  the  prize  of  the  foremost  happ}'  conqueror. 

When  he  heard  this  news  of  Beatrix's  engagement  in  mar- 
riage. Colonel  Esmond  knocked  under  to  his  fate,  and  resolved 
to  surrender  his  sword,  that  could  win  him  nothing  now  he 
cared  for ;  and  in  this  dismal  frame  of  mind  he  determined  to 
retire  from  the  regiment,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  captain 
next  in  rank  to  him,  who  happened  to  be  a  young  gentleman  of 
good  fortune,  who  eagerly  paid  Mr.  Esmond  a  thousand  guin- 
eas for  his  majoritj"  in  Webb's  regiment,  and  was  knocked  on 


278  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

the  head  the  next  campaign.  Perhaps  Esmond  would  not  have 
been  sorry  to  share  his  fate.  He  was  more  the  Knight  of  the 
Woful  Countenaace  than  ever  he  had  been.  His  moodiness 
must  have  made  him  perfectly  odious  to  his  friends  under  the 
tents,  who  like  a  jolly  fellow,  and  laugh  at  a  melancholy  warrior 
always  sighing  after  Dulcinea  at  home. 

Both  the  ladies  of  Castlewood  approved  of  Mr.  Esmond 
quitting  the  army,  and  his  kind  General  coincided  in  his  wish 
of  retirement  and  helped  in  the  transfer  of  his  commission, 
which  brought  a  pretty  sum  into  his  pocket.  But  when  the 
Commander-in-Chief  came  home,  and  was  forced,  in  spite  of 
himself,  to  appoint  Lieutenant- General  Webb  to  the  command 
of  a  division  of  the  army  in  Flanders,  the  Lieutenant-General 
praj^ed  Colonel  Esmond  so  urgentl}'  to  be  his  aide  de-camp  and 
military  secretary,  that  Esmond  could  not  resist  his  kind  pa- 
tron's entreaties,  and  again  took  the  field,  not  attached  to  any 
regiment,  but  under  Webb's  orders.  What  must  have  been  the 
continued  agonies  of  fears  *  and  apprehensions  which  racked 
the  gentle  breasts  of  wives  and  matrons  in  those  dreadful  daj's, 
when  every  Gazette  brought  accounts  of  deaths  and  battles,  and 
when  the  present  anxiet}^  over,  and  the  beloved  person  escaped, 
the  doubt  still  remained  that  a  battle  might  be  fought,  possibly, 
of  which  the  next  Flanders  letter  would  bring  the  account ;  so 
they,  the  poor  tender  creatures,  had  to  go  on  sickening  and 
trembling  through  the  whole  campaign.  Wiiatever  these  terrors 
were  on  the  part  of  Esmond's  mistress,  (and  that  tenderest  of 
women  must  have  felt  them  most  keenlj'  for  both  her  sons,  as 
she  called  them),  she  never  allowed  them  outward!}'  to  appear, 
but  hid  her  apprehension  as  she  did  her  charities  and  devotion. 
'Twas  only  by  chance  that  Esmond,  wandering  in  Kensington, 
found  his  mistress  coming  oat  of  a  mean  cottage  there,  and 
heard  that  she  had  a  score  of  poor  retainers,  whom  she  visited 
and  comforted  in  their  sickness  and  poverty,  and  who  blessed 
her  dail}'.  She  attended  the  earl}-  church  dail}'  (though  of  a 
Sunday,  especially,  she  encouraged  and  advanced  all  sorts  of 
cheerfulness  and  innocent  gayety  in  her  little  household)  :  and 
by  notes  entered  into  a  taVle-book  of  hers  at  this  time,  and  de- 
votional compositions  writ  with  a  sweet  artless  fervor,  such  as 
the  best  divines  could  not  surpass,  showed  how  fond  her  heart 
was,  how  humble  and  pious  her  spirit,  what  pangs  of  apprehen- 
sion she  endured  silently,  and  with  what  a  faithful  reliance  she 
committed  the  care  of  those  she  loved  to  the  awful  Dispenser 
of  death  and  life. 

*  What  indeed  ?     Psm.  xci.  2.  3.  7.  —  R.  E. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  279 

As  for  her  ladyship  at  Chelse}^  Esmond's  newl}'  adopted 
mother,  she  was  now  of  an  age  when  the  danger  of  any  second 
part}'  doth  not  disturb  the  rest  much.  vSlie  cared  for  trumps 
more  than  for  most  things  in  life.  She  was  firm  enough  in  her 
own  faith,  but  no  longer  very  bitter  against  ours.  She  had  a 
very  good-natured,  easy  French  director.  Monsieur  Gauthier  by 
name,  who  was  a  gentleman  of  the  world,  and  would  take  a 
hand  of  cards  with  Dean  Atterbury,  m}^  lady's  neiglibor  at 
Chelse}^  and  was  well  with  all  the  High  Church  part}'.  No 
doubt  Monsieur  Gauthier  knew  what  Esmond's  peculiar  position 
was,  for  he  corresponded  with  Holt,  and  always  treated  Colonel 
Esmond  with  particular  respect  and  kindness  ;  but  for  good 
reasons  the  Colonel  and  the  Abb«  never  spoke  on  this  matter 
together,  and  so  they  remained  perfect  good  friends. 

All  the  frequenters  of  my  Lady  of  Chelse3''s  house  were  of 
the  Tory  and  High  Church  party.  Madame  Beati'ix  was  as 
frantic  about  the  King  as  her  elderl}'  kinswoman  :  she  wore  his 
picture  on  her  heart ;  she  had  a  piece  of  his  hair ;  she  vowed 
he  was  the  most  injured,  and  gallant,  and  accomplished,  and 
unfortunate,  and  beautiful  of  princes.  Steele,  who  quarrelled  with 
ver}'  many  of  his  Tory  friends,  but  never  with  Esmond,  used 
to  tell  the  Colonel  that  his  kinswoman's  house  was  a  rendezvous 
of  Torj'  intrigues  ;  that  Gauthier  was  a  sp}^ ;  that  Atterbury 
was  a  sp3' ;  that  letters  were  constantly'  going  from  that  house 
to  the  Queen  at  St.  Germains  ;  on  which  Esmond,  laughing, 
would  reply,  that  they  used  to  say  in  the  army  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  was  a  spy  too,  and  as  much  in  correspondence 
with  that  famil}'  as  any  Jesuit.  And  without  entering  very 
eagerly  into  the  controversy,  Esmond  had  frankl}'  taken  the 
side  of  his  family.  It  seemed  to  him  that  King  James  the 
Third  was  undoubtedly  King  of  England  by  right :  and  at  his 
sister's  death  it  would  be  better  to  have  him  than  a  foreigner 
over  us.  No  man  admired  King  William  more  ;  a  hero  and  a 
conqueror,  the  bravest,  justest,  wisest  of  men  —  but  'twas  by 
the  sword  he  conquered  the  countr}',  and  held  and  governed  it 
by  the  ver}'  same  right  that  the  great  Cromwell  held  it,  who  was 
trul}^  and  greatly  a  sovereign.  But  that  a  foreign  despotic 
Prince,  out  of  Germany,  who  happened  to  be  descended  from 
King  James  the  First,  should  take  possession  of  this  empire, 
seemed  to  Mr.  Esmond  a  monstrous  injustice  —  at  least,  ever}' 
Englishman  had  a  right  to  protest,  and  the  English  Prince,  the 
heir-at-law,  the  first  of  all.  Whatman  of  spirit  with  such  a 
cause  would  not  back  it?  What  man  of  honor  with  such  a  crown 
to  wdn  would  not  fight  for  it?    But  that  race   was  destined. 


280  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

That  Prince  bad  himself  against  him,  an  enemy  he  could  not 
overcome.  He  never  dared  to  draw  his  sword,  though  he  had  it. 
He  let  his  chances  slip  b}'  as  he  lay  in  the  lap  of  opera-girls, 
or  snivelled  at  the  knees  of  priests  asking  pardon ;  and  the 
blood  of  heroes,  and  the  devotedness  of  honest  hearts,  and  en- 
durance, courage,  fidelity,  were  all  spent  for  him  in  vain. 

But  let  us  return  to  my  Lady  of  Chelse}',  who,  when  her  son 
Esmond  announced  to  her  ladyship  that  he  proposed  to  make 
the  ensuing  campaign,  took  leave  of  him  with  perfect  alacrity, 
and  was  down  to  piquet  with  her  gentlewoman  before  he  had 
well  quitted  the  room  on  his  last  visit.  "  Tierce  to  a  king," 
were  the  last  words  he  ever  heard  her  say  :  the  game  of  life  was 
pretty  nearly  over  for  the  good  lady,  and  three  months  after- 
wards she  took  to  her  bed,  where  she  flickered  out  without  any 
pain,  so  the  Abbe  Gauthier  wrote  over  to  Mr.  Esmond,  then 
with  his  General  on  the  frontier  of  France.  The  Lady  Castle- 
wood  was  with  her  at  her  ending,  and  had  written  too,  but 
these  letters  must  have  been  taken  by  a  privateer  in  the  packet 
that  brought  them  ;  for  Esmond  knew  nothing  of  their  contents 
until  his  return  to  England. 

My  Lady  Castle  wood  had  left  everything  to  Colonel  Esmond, 
"  as  a  reparation  for  the  wrong  done  to  him;"  'twas  writ  in 
her  will.  But  her  fortune  was  not  much,  for  it  never  had  been 
large,  and  the  honest  viscountess  had  wisel}'  sunk  most  of  the 
money  she  had  upon  an  annuit}^  which  terminated  with  her  life. 
However,  there  was  the  house  and  furniture,  plate  and  pictures 
at  Chelsey,  and  a  sum  of  money  13'ing  at  her  merchant's,  Sir 
Josiah  Child,  which  altogether  would  realize  a  sum  of  near 
three  hundred  pounds  per  annum,  so  that  Mr.  Esmond  found 
himself,  if  not  rich,  at  least  easy  for  life.  Likewise  there  were 
the  famous  diamonds  which  had  been  said  to  be  worth  fabulous 
sums,  though  the  goldsmith  pronounced  they  would  fetch  no 
more  than  four  thousand  pounds.  These  diamonds,  however. 
Colonel  Esmond  reserved,  having  a  special  use  for  them  :  but 
the  Chelse}^  house,  plate,  goods,  &c.,  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  articles  which  he  kept  back,  were  sold  by  his  orders  ;  and 
the  sums  resulting  from  the  sale  invested  in  the  public  securities 
so  as  to  realize  the  aforesaid  annual  income  of  three  hundred 
pounds. 

Having  now  something  to  leave,  he  made  a  will  and  de- 
spatched it  home.  The  arm}^  was  now  in  presence  of  the  enemy  ; 
and  a  great  battle  expected  every  day.  'Twas  known  that  the 
General-in-Chief  was  in  disgrace,  and  the  parties  at  home  strong 
against  him,  and  there  was  no  stroke  this  great  and  resolute 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  281 

player  would  not  venture  to  recall  his  fortune  when  it  seemed 
desperate.  Frank  Castlewood  was  with  Colonel  Esmond ;  his 
General  having  gladly  taken  the  3'oung  nobleman  on  to  his  staff. 
His  studies  of  fortifications  at  Bruxelles  were  over  by  this  time. 
The  fort  he  was  besieging  had  yielded,  I  believe,  and  my  lord 
had  not  only  marched  in  with  flying  colors,  but  marched  out 
again.  He  used  to  tell  his  boyish  wickednesses  with  admirable 
humor,  and  was  the  most  charming  young  scapegrace  in  the 
army. 

'Tis  needless  to  say  that  Colonel  Esmond  had  left  every 
penny  of  his  little  fortune  to  this  bo3\  It  was  the  Colonel's 
firm  conviction  that  the  next  battle  would  put  an  end  to  him  : 
for  he  felt  awear}-  of  the  sun,  and  quite  ready  to  bid  that  and 
the  earth  farewell.  Frank  would  not  listen  to  his  comrade's 
gloomy  forebodings,  but  swore  they  would  keep  his  birthda}-  at 
Castlewood  that  autumn,  after  the  campaign.  He  had  heard 
of  the  engagement  at  home.  "  If  Prince  Eugene  goes  to 
London,"  says  Frank,  "and  Trix  can  get  hold  of  him,  she'll 
jilt  Ashburnham  for  his  Highness.  I  tell  you,  she  used  to  make 
eyes  at  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  when  she  was  onl}^  fourteen, 
and  ogling  poor  little  Blandford.  /wouldn't  many  her,  Harry  — 
no,  not  if  her  eyes  were  twice  as  big.  I'll  take  my  fun.  I'll 
enjoy  for  the  next  three  years  ever}'  possible  pleasure.  I'll  sow 
m}'  wild  oats  then,  and  marry  some  quiet,  stead}',  modest, 
sensible  viscountess ;  hunt  m}'  harriers  ;  and  settle  down  at 
Castlewood.  Perhaps  I'll  represent  the  count}^  —  no,  damme, 
you  shall  represent  the  count}'.  You  have  the  brains  of  the 
family.  By  the  Lord,  my  dear  old  Harry,  you  have  the  best 
head  and  the  kindest  heart  in  all  the  army  ;  and  every  man  says 
so  —  and  when  the  Queen  dies,  and  the  King  comes  back,  why 
shouldn't  you  go  to  the  House  of  Commons,  and  be  a  Minister, 
and  be  made  a  Peer,  and  that  sort  of  thing?  Tou  be  shot  in 
the  next  action !  I  wager  a  dozen  of  Burgundy  you  are  not 
touched.  Mohun  is  well  of  his  wound.  He  is  always  with 
Corporal  John  now.  As  soon  as  ever  I  see  his  ugly  face  I'll 
spit  in  it.  I  took  lessons  of  Father  —  of  Captain  Holt  at 
Bruxelles.  What  a  man  that  is  !  He  knows  everything." 
Esmond  bade  Frank  have  a  care ;  that  Father  Holt's  knowl- 
edge was  rather  dangerous  ;  not,  indeed,  knowing  as  yet  how 
far  the  Father  had  pushed  his  instructions  with  his  young 
pupil. 

The  gazetteers  and  writers,  both  of  the  French  and  English 
side,  have  given  accounts  sufficient  of  that  bloody  battle  of 
Blarignies  or  Malplaquet,  which  was  the  last  and  the  hardest 


282  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

earned  of  the  victories  of  the  great  Duke  of  Marlborough.  In 
that  tremendous  combat  near  upon  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  men  were  engaged,  more  than  thirty  thousand  of  whom 
were  slain  or  wounded  (the  Allies  lost  twice  as  man}'  men  as 
they  killed  of  the  French,  whom  they  conquered)  :  and  this 
dreadful  slaughter  very  likely  took  place  because  a  great  gen- 
eral's credit  was  shaken  at  home,  and  he  thought  to  restore  it 
by  a  victory.  If  such  were  the  motives  which  induced  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough  to  venture  that  prodigious  stake,  and  desper- 
ately sacrifice  thirty  thousand  brave  lives,  so  that  he  might 
figure  once  more  in  a  Gazette,  and  hold  his  places  and  pensions 
a  little  longer,  the  event  defeated  the  dreadful  and  selfish  design, 
for  the  victory  was  purchased  at  a  cost  which  no  nation,  greedy 
of  glory  as  it  may  be,  would  willingly  pay  for  any  triumph. 
The  gallantry  of  the  French  was  as  remarkable  as  the  furious 
braver}'  of  their  assailants.  We  took  a  few  score  of  their  flags, 
and  a  few  pieces  of  their  artillerj' ;  but  we  left  twenty  thousand 
of  the  bravest  soldiers  of  the  world  round  about  the  intrenched 
lines,  from  which  the  enemy  was  driven.  He  retreated  in  per- 
fect good  order ;  the  panic-spell  seemed  to  be  broke,  under 
which  the  French  had  labored  ever  since  the  disaster  of  Hoch- 
stedt ;  and,  fighting  now  on  the  threshold  of  their  countrj',  they 
showed  an  heroic  ardor  of  resistance,  such  as  had  never  met 
us  in  the  course  of  their  aggressive  war.  Had  the  battle  been 
more  successful,  the  conqueror  might  have  got  the  price  for 
which  he  waged  it.  As  it  w^as,  (and  justl3%  I  think,)  the  party 
adverse  to  the  Duke  in  England  were  indignant  at  the  lavish 
extravagance  of  slaughter,  and  demanded  more  eagerly  than 
ever  the  recall  of  a  chief  whose  cupidity  and  desperation  might 
urge  him  further  still.  After  this  bloody  fight  of  Malplaquet, 
I  can  answer  for  it,  that  in  the  Dutch  quarters  and  our  own, 
and  amongst  the  yery  regiments  and  commanders  whose  gal- 
lantry was  most  conspicuous  upon  this  frightful  day  of  carnage, 
the  general  cry  was,  that  there  was  enough  of  the  war.  The 
French  were  driven  back  into  their  own  boundar}^  and  all  their 
conquests  and  booty  of  Flanders  disgorged.  As  for  the  Prince 
of  Savo}^,  with  whom  our  Commander-in-Chief,  for  reasons  of 
bis  own,  consorted  more  closely  than  ever,  'twas  known  that  he 
was  animated  not  merel}'  by  a  political  hatred,  but  by  personal 
rage  against  the  old  French  King :  the  Imperial  Generalissimo 
never  forgot  the  slight  put  by  Lewis  upon  the  Abbe  de  Savoie  ; 
and  in  the  humiliation  or  ruin  of  his  most  Christian  Majesty, 
the  H0I3'  Roman  Emperor  found  his  account.  But  what  were 
these  quarrels  to  us,  the  free  citizens  of  England  and  Holland? 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  283 

Despot  as  he  was,  the  French  monarch  was  yet  the  chief  of 
European  civUization,  more  venerable  in  his  age  and  misfor- 
tunes than  at  the  period  of  his  most  splendid  successes ;  whilst 
his  opponent  was  but  a  semi-barbarous  t3'rant,  with  a  pillaging, 
murderous  horde  of  Croats  and  Pandours,  composing  a  half  of 
his  arm}',  filling  our  camp  with  their  strange  figures,  bearded 
like  the  miscreant  Turks  their  neighbors,  and  carrying  into 
Christian  warfare  their  native  heathen  habits  of  rapine,  lust, 
and  murder.  Why  should  the  best  blood  in  England  and 
France  be  shed  in  order  that  the  H0I3'  Roman  and  Apostolic  mas- 
ter of  these  ruffians  should  have  his  revenge  over  the  Christian 
king?  And  it  was  to  this  end  we  were  fighting;  for  this  that 
every  village  and  family  in  England  was  deploring  the  death  of 
beloved  sons  and  fathers.  We  dared  not  speak  to  each  other, 
even  at  table,  of  Malplaquet,  so  frightful  were  the  gaps  left  in 
our  army  b}'  the  cannon  of  that  bloody  action.  'Twas  heart- 
rending for  an  officer  who  had  a  heart  to  look  down  his  line  on 
a  parade-day  afterwards,  and  miss  hundreds  of  faces  of  com- 
rades —  humble  or  of  high  rank  —  that  had  gathered  but  yes- 
terday full  of  courage  and  cheerfulness  round  the  torn  and 
blackened  flags.  AVhere  were  our  friends?  As  the  great  Duke 
reviewed  us,  riding  along  our  lines  with  his  fine  suite  of  prancing 
aides-de-camp  and  generals,  stopping  here  and  there  to  thank 
an  officer  with  those  eager  smiles  and  bows  of  which  his  Grace 
was  alwa3's  lavish,  scarce  a  huzzah  could  be  got  for  him,  though 
Cadogan,  with  an  oath,  rode  up  and  cried  —  "D — n  3^ou,  why 
don't  you.  cheer  ? "  But  the  men  had  no  heart  for  that :  not 
one  of  them  but  was  thinking,  "Where's  my  comrade?  — 
Where's  my  brother  that  fought  b^'  me,  or  my  dear  captain  that 
led  me  3'esterday?"  'Twas  the  most  gloom3^  pageant  I  ever 
looked  on;  and  the  "  Te  Deum"  sung  by  our  chaplains,  the 
most  woful  and  drear3^  satire. 

Esmond's  General  added  one  more  to  the  man3"  marks  of 
honor  which  he  had  received  in  the  front  of  a  score  of  battles, 
and  got  a  wound  in  the  groin,  which  laid  him  on  his  back ;  and 
you  ma3^  be  sure  he  consoled  himself  b3'  abusing  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief, as  he  lay  groaning,  —  "Corporal  John's  as 
fond  of  me,"  he  used  to  say,  "  as  King  David  was  of  General 
Uriah ;  and  so  he  alwa3's  gives  me  the  post  of  danger."  He 
persisted,  to  his  dying  day,  in  believing  that  the  Duke  intended 
he  should  be  beat  at  Wynendael,  and  sent  him  purposely  with 
a  small  force,  hoping  that  he  might  be  knocked  on  the  head 
there.  Esmond  and  Frank  Castle  wood  both  escaped  without 
hurt,  though  the  division  which  our  General  commanded  suffered 


284  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

even  more  than  any  other,  having  to  sustain  not  only  the  fury 
of  the  enemy's  cannonade,  which  was  verj'  hot  and  well  served, 
but  the  furious  and  repeated  charges  of  the  famous  Maison  du 
Roy,  which  we  had  to  receive  and  beat  off  again  and  again, 
with  vollcN's  of  shot  and  hedges  of  iron,  and  our  four  lines  of 
musqueteers  and  pikemen.  They  said  the  King  of  England 
charged  us  no  less  than  twelve  times  that  day,  along  with  the 
French  Household.  Esmond's  late  regiment,  General  Webb's 
own  Fusileers,  served  in  the  division  which  their  colonel  com- 
manded. The  General  was  thrice  in  the  centre  of  the  square 
of  the  Fusileers,  calling  the  fire  at  the  French  charges,  and,  after 
the  action,  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Berwick  sent  his  compliments 
to  his  old  regiment  and  their  Colonel  for  their  behavior  on  the 
field. 

We  drank  my  Lord  Castlewood's  health  and  majority,  the 
25th  of  September,  the  army  being  then  before  Mons :  and 
here  Colonel  Esmond  was  not  so  fortunate  as  he  had  been  in 
actions  much  more  dangerous,  and  was  hit  bj^  a  spent  ball  just 
above  the  place  where  his  former  wound  was,  which  caused  the 
old  wound  to  open  again,  fever,  spitting  of  blood,  and  other 
ugly  symptoms,  to  ensue  ;  and,  in  a  word,  brought  him  near  to 
death's  door.  The  kind  lad,  his  kinsman,  attended  his  elder 
comrade  with  a  ver}-  praiseworthy  affectionateness  and  care 
until  he  was  pronounced  out  of  danger  bv  the  doctors,  when 
Frank  went  off,  passed  the  winter  at  Bruxelles,  and  besieged, 
no  doubt,  some  other  fortress  there.  Very  few  lads  would 
have  given  up  their  pleasures  so  long  and  so  ga3'ly  as  Frank 
did ;  his  cheerful  prattle  soothed  manj'  long  days  of  Esmond's 
pain  and  languor.  Frank  was  supposed  to  be  still  at  his  kins- 
man's bedside  for  a  month  after  he  had  left  it,  for  letters  came 
from  his  mother  at  home  full  of  thanks  to  the  3'ounger  gentle- 
man for  his  care  of  his  elder  brother  (so  it  pleased  Esmond's 
mistress  now  affectionately  to  style  him)  ;  nor  was  Mr.  Es- 
mond in  a  hurry  to  undeceive  her,  when  the  good  young  fel- 
low was  gone  for  his  Christmas  holida3\  It  was  as  pleasant 
to  Esmond  on  his  couch  to  watch  the  .young  man's  pleasure  at 
the  idea  of  being  free,  as  to  note  his  simple  efforts  to  disguise 
his  satisf^iction  on  going  away.  There  are  daj^s  when  a  flask 
of  champagne  at  a  cabaret,  and  a  red-cheeked  partner  to  share 
it,  are  too  strong  temptations  for  smy  3'oung  fellow  of  spirit. 
I  am  not  going  to  play  the  moralist,  and  crj^  ''  Fie."  For  ages 
past,  I  know  how  old  men  preach,  and  what  young  men  prac- 
tise ;  and  that  patriarchs  have  had  their  weak  moments  too, 
long  since  Father  Noah  toppled  over  after  discovering  the  vine. 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  285 

Frank  went  off,  then,  to  his  pleasures  at  Bruxelles,  in  which 
capital  man}^  yo^^ng  fellows  of  our  army  declared  the}'  found 
infinitely  greater  diversion  even  than  in  London :  and  Mr. 
Henry  Esmond  remained  in  his  sick-room,  where  he  writ  a  fine 
comedy,  that  his  mistress  pronounced  to  be  sublime,  and  that 
was  acted  no  less  than  three  successive  nights  in  London  in  the 
next  year. 

Here,  as  he  lay  nursing  himself,  ubiquitous  Mr.  Holt  re- 
appeared, and  stopped  a  whole  month  at  Mons,  where  he  not 
only  won  over  Colonel  Esmond  to  the  King's  side  in  politics 
(that  side  being  always  held  by  the  Esmond  famil}')  ;  but 
where  he  endeavored  to  reopen  the  controversial  question 
between  the  churches  once  more,  and  to  recall  Esmond  to  that 
religion  in  which,  in  his  infancy,  he  had  been  baptized.  Holt 
was  a  casuist,  both  dexterous  and  learned,  and  presented  the 
case  between  the  English  church  and  his  own  in  such  a  wa}'' 
that  those  who  granted  his  premises  ought  certainly  to  allow 
his  conclusions.  He  touched  on  Esmond's  delicate  state  of 
health,  chance  of  dissolution,  and  so  forth  ;  and  enlarged  upon 
the  immense  benefits  that  the  sick  man  was  likely  to  forego  — 
benefits  which  the  church  of  England  did  not  deny  to  those  of 
the  Roman  communion,  as  how  should  she,  being  derived  from 
that  church,  and  only  an  offshoot  from  it?  But  Mr.  Esmond 
said  that  his  church  was  the  church  of  his  country,  and  to  that 
he  chose  to  remain  faithful :  other  people  were  welcome  to 
worship  and  to  subscribe  any  other  set  of  articles,  whether  at 
Rome  or  at  Augsburg.  But  if  the  good  Father  meant  that 
Esmond  should  join  the  Roman  communion  for  fear  of  conse- 
quences, and  that  all  England  ran  the  risk  of  being  damned 
for  heresy,  Esmond,  for  one,  was  perfectly  willing  to  take  his 
chance  of  the  penalty  along  with  the  countless  millions  of  his 
fellow-countrj^men,  who  were  bred  in  the  same  faith,  and  along 
with  some  of  the  noblest,  the  truest,  the  purest,  the  wisest, 
the  most  pious  and  learned  men  and  women  in  the  world. 

As  for  the  political  question,  in  that  Mr.  Esmond  could 
agree  with  the  Father  much  more  readily,  and  had  come  to  the 
same  conclusion,  though,  perhaps,  by  a  different  way.  The 
right  divine,  about  which  Dr.  Sacheverel  and  the  High  Church 
party  in  England  were  just  now  making  a  bother,  they  were 
welcome  to  hold  as  the}^  chose.  If  Richard  Cromwell,  and  his 
father  before  him  had  been  crowned  and  anointed  (and  bishops 
enough  would  have  been  found  to  do  it) ,  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Es- 
mond that  they  would  have  had  the  right  divine  just  as  much 
as  any  Plantagenet,  or  Tudor,  or  Stuart.     But  the  desire  of 


286  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

the  countr}'  being  nnqiiestionabty  for  an  hereditary  monarch3% 
Esmond  tliought  an  English  king  out  of  St.  Germains  was 
better  and  fitter  than  a  German  prince  from  Herrenhausen,  and 
that  if  he  failed  to  satisf}'  the  nation,  some  other  Englishman 
might  be  found  to  take  his  place  ;  and  so,  though  with  no  fran- 
tic enthusiasm,  or  worship  of  that  monstrous  pedigree  which 
the  Tories  chose  to  consider  divine,  he  was  ready  to  say, 
*'  God  save  King  James  !  "  when  Queen  Anne  went  the  way  of 
kings  and  commoners. 

••'  I  fear,  Colonel,  you  are  no  better  than  a  republican  at 
heart,"  says  the  priest  with  a  sigh. 

"I  am  an  Englishman,"  says  Hany,  "  and  take  my  coun- 
tr^^  as  1  find  her.  The  will  of  the  nation  being  for  church  and 
king,  I  am  for  church  and  king  too  ;  but  English  church  and 
Enghsh  king ;  and  that  is  wli}'  your  church  isn't  mine,  though 
your  king  is." 

Though  the}"  lost  the  day  at  Malplaquet,  it  was  the  French 
who  were  elated  by  that  action,  whilst  the  conquerors  were  dis- 
pirited b}'  it ;  and  the  enem}^  gathered  together  a  larger  army 
than  ever,  and  made  prodigious  efl^brts  for  the  next  campaign. 
Marshal  Berwick  was  with  the  French  this  year ;  and  we  heard 
that  Mareschal  Villars  was  still  suflfering  of  his  wound,  was 
eager  to  bring  our  Duke  to  action,  and  vowed  he  would  fight 
us  in  his  coach.  IToung  Castlewood  came  flying  back  from 
Bruxelles,  as  soon  as  he  heard  that  fighting  was  to  begin  ;  and 
the  arrival  of  the  Chevalier  de  St.  George  was  announced 
about  Ma}'.  "  It's  the  King's  third  campaign,  and  it's  mine," 
Frank  liked  saying.  He  was  come  back  a  greater  Jacobite 
than  ever,  and  Esmond  suspected  that  some  fair  conspirators 
at  Bruxelles  had  been  inflaming  the  young  man's  ardor.  In- 
deed, he  owned  that  he  had  a  message  from  the  Queen, 
Beatrix's  godmother,  who  had  given  her  name  to  Frank's  sister 
the  3'ear  before  he  and  his  sovereign  were  born. 

However  desirous  Marshal  Villars  might  be  to  fight,  my 
Lord  Duke  did  not  seem  disposed  to  indulge  him  this  campaign. 
Last  3'ear  his  Grace  had  been  all  for  the  Whigs  and  Hanove- 
rians ;  but  finding,  on  going  to  England,  his  country  cold  towards 
himself,  and  the  people  in  a  ferment  of  High  Church  lo3'alt3', 
the  Duke  comes  back  to  his  army  cooled  towards  the  Hano- 
verians, cautious  with  the  Imperialists,  and  particular!}"  civil 
and  polite  towards  the  Chevalier  de  St.  George.  'Tis  certain 
that  messengers  and  letters  were  continually  passing  between 
his  Grace  and  his  brave  nephew,  the  Duke  of  Berwick,  in  the 
opposite  camp.     No  man's  caresses  were  more  opportune  than 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY   ESMOND.  287 

his  Grace's,  and  no  man  ever  uttered  expressions  of  regard  and 
affection  more  generoush\  He  professed  to  Monsieur  de  Tore}', 
so  Mr.  8t.  John  told  the  writer,  quite  an  eagerness  to  be  cut  in 
pieces  for  the  exiled  Queen  and  her  famil}^ ;  na^'  more,  I  beheve, 
this  3'ear  he  parted  with  a  portion  of  the  most  precious  part  of 
himself — his  money  —  which  he  sent  over  to  the  royal  exiles. 
Mr.  Tunstal,  who  was  in  the  Prince's  service,  was  twice  or 
thrice  in  and  out  of  our  camp  ;  the  French,  in  theirs  of  Arlieu 
and  about  Arras.  A  little  river,  the  Canihe  I  think  'twas  called, 
(but  this  is  writ  away  from  books  and  Europe  ;  and  the  only 
map  the  writer  hath  of  these  scenes  of  his  3'outh,  bears  no  mark 
of  this  little  stream,)  divided  our  pickets  from  the  enemy's. 
Our  sentries  talked  across  the  stream,  when  the}'  could  make 
themselves  understood  to  each  other,  and  when  the}'  could  not, 
grinned,  and  handed  each  other  their  brand^'-flasks  or  their 
pouches  of  tobacco.  And  one  fine  day  of  June,  riding  thither 
with  the  officer  who  visited  the  outposts,  (Colonel  Esmond  was 
taking  an  ah'ing  on  horseback,  being  too  weak  for  military 
dut}',)  they  came  to  this  river,  where  a  number  of  F^nglish  and 
Scots  were  assembled,  talking  to  the  good-natured  enem}'  on 
the  other  side. 

Esmond  was  especially  amused  with  the  talk  of  one  long 
fellow,  with  a  great  curling  red  moustache,  and  blue  eyes,  that 
was  half  a  dozen  inches  taller  than  his  swarthy  little  com- 
rades on  the  French  side  of  the  stream,  and  being  asked  by  the 
Colonel,  saluted  him,  and  said  that  he  belonged  to  the  Royal 
Cravats. 

From  his  way  of  saying  "  Ro3'al  Cravat,"  Esmond  at  once 
knew  that  the  fellow's  tongue  had  first  wagged  on  the  banks  of 
the  Liff'ey,  and  not  the  Loire  ;  and  the  poor  soldier  —  a  deserter 
probabl}'  —  dic^  not  like  to  venture  ver}'  deep  into  French  con- 
versation, lest  his  unluck}'  brogue  should  peep  out.  He  chose 
to  restrict  himself  to  such  few  expressions  in  the  French  lan- 
guage as  he  thought  he  had  mastered  easily  ;  and  his  attempt 
at  disguise  was  infinitely  amusing.  Mr.  Esmond  whistled  Lilli- 
bullero,  at  which  Teague's  e3'es  began  to  twinkle,  and  then 
flung  him  a  dollar,  when  the  poor  bo}'  broke  out  with  a  "  God 
bless  —  that  is,  Dieu  benisse  votre  honor,"  that  would  infallibly 
have  sent  him  to  the  provost-marshal  had  he  been  on  our  side 
of  the  river. 

Whilst  this  parlej^  was  going  on,  three  officers  on  horseback, 
on  the  French  side,  appeared  at  some  little  distance,  and 
stopped  as  if  eying  us,  when  one  of  them  left  the  other  two, 
and  rode  close  up  to  us  who  were  by  the  stream.     "Look, 


288  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

look  !  "  sa3's  the  Koyal  Cravat,  with  great  agitation,  "  pas  lui, 
that's  he ;  not  him,  I'antre,"  and  pointed  to  the  distant  officer 
on  a  chestnut  horse,  with  a  cuirass  shining  in  the  sun,  and  over 
it  a  broad  bhie  ribbon. 

"  Please  to  take  Mr.  Hamilton's  services  to  my  Lord  Marl- 
borough—  m}^  Lord  Duke,"  sa^-s  the  gentleman  in  English; 
and,  looking  to  see  that  the  party  were  not  hostilely  disposed, 
he  added,  with  a  smile,  "  There's  a  friend  of  yours,  gentlemen, 
3'onder ;  he  bids  me  to  sa}^  that  he  saw  some  of  your  faces  on 
the  11th  of  September  last  year." 

As  the  gentleman  spoke,  the  other  two  officers  rode  up,  and 
came  quite  close.  We  knew  at  once  who  it  was.  It  was  the 
King,  then  two-and-twenty  years  old,  tall  and  slim,  with  deep 
brown  eyes,  that  looked  melancholy,  though  his  lips  wore  a 
smile.  We  took  off  our  hats  and  saluted  him.  No  man,  sure, 
could  see  for  the  first  time,  without  emotion,  the  3'outliful  inheri- 
tor of  so  much  fame  and  misfortune.  It  seemed  to  Mr.  Esmond 
that  the  Prince  was  not  unlike  J'oung  Castlewood,  whose  age 
and  figure  he  resembled.  The  Chevalier  de  St.  George  ac- 
knowledged the  salute,  and  looked  at  us  hard.  Even  the  idlers 
on  our  side  of  the  river  set  up  a  hurrah.  As  for  the  Ro^'al 
Cravat,  he  ran  to  the  Prince's  stirrup,  knelt  down  and  kissed 
his  boot,  and  bawled  and  looked  a  hundred  ejaculations  and 
blessings.  The  prince  bade  the  aide-de-camp  give  him  a  piece 
of  money ;  and  when  the  party  saluting  us  had  ridden  awav, 
Cravat  spat  upon  the  piece  of  gold  b}^  way  of  benediction,  and 
swaggered  awa}^,  pouching  his  coin  and  twirling  his  honest 
carroty  moustache. 

The  officer  in  whose  company-  Esmond  was,  the  same  little 
captain  of  Handy  side's  regiment,  Mr.  Sterne,  who  had  proposed 
the  garden  at  Lille,  when  mj^  Lord  Mohun  and  Esmond  had 
their  affair,  was  an  Irishman  too,  and  as  brave  a  little  soul  as 
ever  wore  a  sword.  "  Bedad,"  says  Roger  Sterne,  "  that  long 
fellow  spoke  French  so  beautiful  that  I  shouldn't  have  known 
he  wasn't  a  foreigner,  till  he  broke  out  with  his  huUa-ballooing, 
and  only  an  Irish  calf  can  bellow  like  that."  And  Roger  made 
another  remark  in  his  wild  way,  in  which  there  was  sense  as 
well  as  absurdit}^  —  "If  that  young  gentleman,"  says  he, 
"would  but  ride  over  to  our  camp,  instead  ofVillars's,  toss 
up  his  hat  and  sa}-,  '  Here  am  I,  the  King,  who'll  follow  me  ? ' 
b}'  the  Lord,  Esmond,  the  whole  arm}'  woukl  rise  and  carry 
him  home  again,  and  beat  Villars,  and  take  Paris  by  the 
way." 

The  news  of  the  Prince's  visit  was  all  through  the  camp 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  289 

quickly,  and  scores  of  ours  went  down  in  hopes  to  see  him. 
Major  Hamilton,  whom  we  had  talked  with,  sent  back  by  a 
trumpet  several  silver  pieces  for  officers  with  us.  Mr.  Esmond 
received  one  of  these  ;  and  that  medal,  and  a  recompense  not 
uncommon  amongst  Princes,  were  the  only  rewards  he  ever  had 
from  a  Royal  person,  whom  he  endeavored  not  very  long  after 
to  serve. 

Esmond  quitted  the  army  almost  immediately  after  this, 
following  his  general  home ;  and,  indeed,  being  advised  to 
travel  in  the  fine  weather  and  attempt  to  take  no  farther  part 
in  the  campaign.  But  he  heard  from  the  army,  that  of  the 
many  who  crowded  to  see  the  Chevaher  de  St.  George,  Frank 
Castlewood  had  made  himself  most  conspicuous ;  mj^  Lord 
Viscount  riding  across  the  little  stream  bareheaded  to  where 
the  Prince  was,  and  dismounting  and  kneeling  before  him  to  do 
bim  homage.  Some  said  that  the  Prince  had  actually  knighted 
bim,  but  my  lord  denied  that  statement,  though  he  acknowl- 
edged the  rest  of  the  story,  and  said  :  —  "  From  having  been 
out  of  favor  with  Corporal  John,"  as  he  called  the  Duke, 
"  before  his  Grace  warned  him  not  to  commit  those  follies,  and 
smiled  on  him  cordiall\'  ever  after." 

"  And  he  was  so  kind  to  me,"  Frank  writ,  "  that  I  thought 
1  would  put  in  a  good  word  for  Master  Flarry,  but  when  I 
mentioned  your  name  he  looked  as  black  as  thunder,  and  said 
he  had  never  heard  of  you." 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  GO  HOME,  AND  HARP  ON  THE  OLD  STRING. 

After  quitting  Mons  and  the  army,  and  as  he  was  waiting 
for  a  packet  at  Ostend,  Esmond  had  a  letter  from  his  young  kins- 
man Castlewood  at  Bruxelles,  convej'ing  intelligence  whereof 
Frank  besought  him  to  be  the  bearer  to  London,  and  which 
caused  Colonel  Esmond  no  small  anxiety. 

The  3^oung  scapegrace,  being  one-and-twent}^  years  old,  and 
being  anxious  to  sow  his  "  wild  otes,"  as  he  wrote,  had  married 
Mademoiselle  de  Wertheim,  daughter  of  Count  de  Wertheim, 
Chamberlain  to  the  Emperor,  and  having  a  post  in  the  House- 
hold of  the  Governor  of  the  Netherlands.  "P.S.,"  the  young 
gentleman  wrote:    "Clotilda  is  older  than  me^  which  perhaps 

19 


290  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

may  be  objected  to  her :  but  I  am  so  old  a  raik  that  the  age 
makes  no  difference,  and  I  am  determined  to  reform.  We  were 
married  at  St.  Gudule,  by  Father  Holt.  She  is  heart  and  soul 
for  the  good  cause.  And  here  the  cry  is  Vif-le-Roy,  which  my 
mother  will  join  in,  and  Trix  too.  Break  this  news  to  'em 
gently :  and  tell  Mr.  Finch,  my  agent,  to  press  the  people  for 
their  rents,  and  send  me  the  ryno  anyhow.  Clotilda  sings,  and 
plays  on  the  Spinet  beautifully.  She  is  a  fair  beauty.  And  if 
it's  a  son,  you  shall  stand  Godfather.  I'm  going  to  leave  the 
army,  having  had  enuf  of  soldering  ;  and  my  Lord  Duke  recom- 
mends me.  I  shall  pass  the  winter  here :  and  stop  at  least 
until  Clo's  lying  in.  I  call  her  old  Clo,  but  nobody  else  shall. 
She  is  the  cleverest  woman  in  all  Bruxelles :  understanding 
painting,  music,  poetry,  and  perfect  at  cookery  and  puddens.  I 
horded  with  the  Count,  that's  how  I  came  to  know  her.  There 
are  four  Counts  her  brothers.  One  an  Abbey  — three  with  the 
Prince's  army.  They  have  a  lawsuit  for  an  iinmence  fortune  : 
but  are  now  in  a  pore  way.  Break  this  to  mother,  who'll  take 
anything  from  you.  And  write,  and  bid  Finch  write  amediately. 
Hostel  de  I'Aigle  Noire,  Bruxelles,  Flanders." 

So  Frank  had  married  a  Roman  Catholic  lady,  and  an  heir 
was  expected,  and  Mr.  ICsmond  was  to  cany  this  intelligence 
to  his  mistress  at  London.  'Twas  a  difficult  embassy  ;  and  the 
Colonel  felt  not  a  little  tremor  as  he  neared  the  capital. 

Fle  reached  his  inn  late,  and  sent  a  messenger  to  Kensington 
to  announce  his  arrival  and  visit  the  next  morning.  The  mes- 
senger brought  back  news  that  the  Court  was  at  Windsor,  and 
the  fair  Beatrix  absent  and  engaged  in  her  duties  there.  Only 
Esmond's  mistress  remained  in  her  house  at  Kensington.  She 
appeared  in  court  but  once  in  the  j^ear ;  Beatrix  was  quite  the 
mistress  and  ruler  of  the  little  mansion,  inviting  the  compan}^ 
thither,  and  engaging  in  every  conceivable  frolic  of  town  pleas- 
ure. Whilst  her  mother,  acting  as  the  young  lady's  protectress 
and  elder  sister,  pursued  her  own  path,  which  was  quite  modest 
and  secluded. 

As  soon  as  ever  Esmond  was  dressed  (and  he  had  been 
awake  long  before  the  town),  he  took  a  coach  for  Kensington, 
and  reached  it  so  early  that  he  met  his  dear  mistress  coming 
home  from  morning  prayers.  She  carried  her  pra3'er-book, 
never  allowing  a  footman  to  bear  it,  as  everybod}^  else  did  :  and 
it  was  b}'  this  simple  sign  Esmond  knew  what  her  occupation 
had  been.  He  called  to  the  coachman  to  stop,  and  jumped  out 
as  she  looked  towards  him.  She  wore  her  hood  as  usual,  and 
she  turned  quite  pale  when  she  saw  him.     To  feel  that  kind 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  291 

/ittle  hand  near  to  his  heart  seemed  to  give  him  strength. 
They  were  soon  at  the  door  of  her  ladj^ship's  house  —  and 
within  it. 

With  a  sweet  sad  smile  she  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"How  ill  3'ou  have  been:  how  weak  you  look,  my  dear 
Henr}',"  she  said. 

'Tis  certain  the  Colonel  did  look  like  a  ghost,  except  that 
ghosts  do  not  look  verj'  happy,  'tis  said.  Esmond  always  felt 
so  on  returning  to  her  after  absence,  indeed  whenever  he  looked 
in  her  sweet  kind  face. 

"  I  am  come  back  to  be  nursed  by  my  family,"  says  he. 
"If  Frank  had  not  taken  care  of  me  after  my  wound,  very 
likely  I  should  have  gone  altogether." 

"Poor  Frank,  good  Frank!"  says  his  mother.  "You'll 
always  be  kind  to  him,  my  lord,"  she  went  on.  "The  poor 
child  never  knew  he  was  doing  you  a  wrong." 

"  M}^  lord!"  cries  out  Colonel  Esmond.  "What  do  you 
mean,  dear  lad3^?" 

"  I  am  no  lady,"  says  she  ;  "  I  am  Rachel  Esmond,  Francis 
Esmond's  widow,  my  lord.  I  cannot  bear  that  title.  Would 
we  never  had  taken  it  from  him  who  has  it  now.  But  we  did 
all  in  our  power,  Henry  :  we  did  all  in  our  power  ;  and  my  lord 
and  I  —  that  is  —  " 

"  Who  told  you  this  tale,  dearest  lad}'?  "  asked  the  Colonel. 

"  Have  you  not  had  the  letter  I  writ  you?  I  writ  to  you  at 
Mons  directly  I  heard  it,"  says  Lady  Esmond. 

"And  from  whom?"  again  asked  Colonel  Esmond  —  and 
his  mistress  then  told  him  that  on  her  death-bed  the  Dowager 
Countess,  sending  for  her,  had  presented  her  with  this  dismal 
secret  as  a  legacy.  "  'Twas  very  malicious  of  the  Dowager," 
Lad}'  P^smond  said,  "to  have  had  it  so  long,  and  to  have 
kept  the  truth  from  me."  "  Cousin  Rachel,"  she  said,  —  and 
Esmond's  mistress  could  not  forbear  smiling  as  she  told  the 
story  —  "Cousin  Rachel,"  cries  the  Dowager,  "I  have  sent 
for  3'ou,  as  the  doctors  say  I  may  go  off  any  day  in  this  dysen- 
ter}^ ;  and  to  ease  my  conscience  of  a  great  load  that  has  been 
on  it.  You  alwaj's  have  been  a  poor  creature  and  unfit  for 
great  honor,  and  what  I  have  to  say  won't,  therefore,  affect 
you  so  much.  You  must  know,  Cousin  Rachel,  that  I  have 
left  my  house,  plate,  and  furniture,  three  thousand  pounds  in 
mone}^,  and  my  diamonds  that  my  late  revered  Saint  and  Sov- 
ereign, King  James,  presented  me  with,  to  my  Lord  Viscount 
Castlewood." 


292  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

"To  m}^  Frank?"  says  Lady  Castlewood ;  "I  was  in 
hopes  —  " 

"  To  Viscount  Castlewood,  my  dear;  Viscount  Castlewood 
and  Baron  Esmond  of  Sliandon  in  the  Kingdom  of  Ireland, 
Earl  and  Marquis  of  Esmond  under  patent  of  his  Majesty 
King  James  the  Second,  conferred  upon  m}^  husband  the  late 
Marquis  —  for  I  am  Marchioness  of  Esmond  before  God  and 
man." 

"  And  have  3^ou  left  poor  Harry  nothing,  dear  Marchioness  ?  " 
asks  Lady  Castlewood  (she  hath  told  me  the  story  completel}" 
since  with  her  quiet  arch  way  ;  the  most  charming  an}^  woman 
ever  had  :  and  I  set  down  the  narrative  here  at  length,  so  as  to 
have  done  with  it) .  "  And  have  3'ou  left  poor  Harry  nothing  ?  " 
asks  m}^  dear  lady  :  "for  3'ou  know,  Henry,"  she  sa3's  with  her 
sweet  smile,  "  I  used  always  to  pity  Esau —  and  I  think  I  am 
on  his  side  —  though  papa  tried  very  hard  to  convince  me  the 
other  way." 

"  Poor  Harry  !  "  says  the  old  lad3^  "  So  3'ou  want  some- 
thing left  to  poor  Harr3^ :  he,  —  he  !  (reach  me  the  drops, 
cousin).  Well,  then,  m3^  dear,  since  3'ou  want  poor  Harry  to 
have  a  fortune,  you  must  understand  that  ever  since  the  3-ear 
1691,  a  week  after  the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  where  the  Prince  of 
Orange  defeated  his  royal  sovereign  and  father,  for  which  crime 
he  is  now  suffering  in  flames  (ugh  !  ugh  !)  Henry  Esmond  hath 
been  Marquis  of  Esmond  and  Earl  of  Castlewood  in  the  United 
Kingdom,  and  Baron  and  Viscount  Castlewood  of  Shandon  in 
Ireland,  and  a  Baronet  —  and  his  eldest  son  will  be,  by  courtes3% 
st3^1ed  Earl  of  Castlewood  —  he  !  he  !  What  do  you  think  of 
that,  m3^  dear  ?  " 

"  Gracious  mercy !  how  long  have  3'ou  known  this?"  cries 
the  other  lady  (thinking  perhaps  that  the  old  Marchioness  was 
wandering  in  her  wits). 

"My  husband,  before  he  was  converted,  was  a  wicked 
wretch,"  the  sick  sinner  continued.  "  When  he  was  in  the 
Low  Countries  he  seduced  a  weaver's  daughter ;  and  added  to 
his  wickedness  by  marrying  her.  And  then  he  came  to  this 
countr3^  and  married  me  —  a  poor  girl  —  a  poor  innocent  3'Oung 
thing  —  I  say,"  —  "though  she  was  past  fort3^  you  know, 
Harr3%  when  she  married:  and  as  for  being  innocent"  — 
"  Well,"  she  went  on,  "I  knew  nothing  of  m3^  lord's  wicked- 
ness for  three  3'ears  after  our  marriage,  and  after  the  burial  of 
our  poor  little  bo3'  I  had  it  done  over  again,  m3^  dear :  I  had 
myself  married  by  Father  Holt  in  Castlewood  chapel,  as  soon 
as  ever  I  heard  the  creature  was  dead  —  and  having  a  great 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  293 

illness  then,  arising  from  another  sad  disappointment  I  had, 
the  priest  came  and  told  me  that  m}^  lord  had  a  son  before  our 
marriage,  and  that  the  child  was  at  nurse  in  England ;  and  I 
consented  to  let  the  brat  be  brought  home,  and  a  queer  httle 
melanchol}^  child  it  was  when  it  came. 

"  Our  intention  was  to  niake  a  priest  of  him  :  and  he  was 
bred  for  this,  until  you  perverted  him  from  it,  you  wicked 
woman.  And  I  had  again  hopes  of  giving  an  heir  to  my  lord, 
when  he  was  called  awa}^  uuon  the  King's  business,  and  died 
fighting  gloriously  at  the  Boync  water. 

"  Should  I  be  disappointed  —  1  owed  3-our  husband  no  love, 
my  dear,  for  he  had  jilted  me  in  the  most  scandalous  way ; 
and  I  thought  there  would  be  time  to  declare  the  little  weaver's 
son  for  the  true  heir.  But  1  was  carried  off  to  prison,  where 
3'our  husband  was  so  kind  to  me  —  urging  all  his  friends  to 
obtain  my  release,  and  using  all  his  credit  in  my  favor  —  that 
I  relented  towards  him,  especiall}'  as  m}'  director  counselled  me 
to  be  silent ;  and  that  it  was  for  the  good  of  the  King's  service 
that  the  title  of  our  famil}'  sliould  continue  with  your  husband 
the  late  viscount,  wliereb}-  his  fidelit}'  would  be  always  secured 
to  the  King.  And  a  proof  of  this  is,  that  a  3ear  before  3'our 
husband's  death,  when  he  thought  of  taking  a  place  under  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  Mr.  Holt  went  to  him,  and  told  him  what 
the  state  of  the  matter  was,  and  obliged  him  to  raise  a  large 
sum  for  his  Majesty  ;  and  engaged  him  in  the  true  cause  so 
heartily,  that  we  were  sure  of  his  support  on  any  day  wlien  it 
should  be  considered  advisable  to  attack  the  usur[)er.  Then 
his  sudden  death  came  ;  and  there  was  a  thought  of  declaring 
the  truth.  But  'twas  determined  to  be  best  for  the  King's 
service  to  let  the  title  still  go  with  the  younger  branch  ;  and 
there's  no  sacrifice  a  Castlewood  wouldn't  make  for  that  cause, 
m}^  dear. 

"As  for  Colonel  Esmond,  he  knew  the  truth  alread}'." 
("  And  then,  Harry,"  my  mistress  said,  "  she  told  me  of  what 
had  happened  at  my  dear  husband's  death-bed  ").  '-  He  doth 
not  intend  to  take  the  title,  though  it  belongs  to  him.  But  it 
eases  m}"  conscience  that  3'ou  should  know  the  truth,  m3'  dear. 
And  your  son  is  lawfull3'  Viscount  Castlewood  so  long  as  his 
cousin  doth  not  claim  the  rank." 

This  was  the  substance  of  the  Dowager's  revelation.  Dean 
Atterbur3'  had  knowledge  of  it.  Lady  Castlewood  said,  and 
Esmond  ver3^  well  knows  how  :  that  divine  being  the  clerg3'man 
for  whom  the  late  lord  had  sent  on  his  death-bed  :  and  when 
Lady  Castlewood  would  instantly  have  written  to  her  son,  and 


294  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

conveyed  the  truth  to  him,  the  Dean's  advice  was  that  a  letter 
should  be  writ  to  Colonel  Esmond  rather ;  that  the  matter 
should  be  submitted  to  his  decision,  by  which  alone  the  rest  of 
the  famil}'  were  bound  to  abide. 

"  And  can  my  dearest  lady  doubt  what  that  will  be?"  says 
the  Colonel. 

*'  It  rests  with  you,  Harr}^,  as  the  head  of  our  house." 

"  It  was  settled  twelve  years  since,  by  m}"  dear  lord's  bed- 
side," says  Colonel  Esmond.  "  The  children  must  know  noth- 
ing of  this.  Frank  and  his  heirs  after  him  must  bear  our  name. 
'Tis  his  rightfully  ^  I  have  not  even  a  proof  of  that  marriage  of 
my  father  and  mother,  though  my  poor  lord,  on  his  death-bed, 
told  me  that  Father  Holt  had  brought  such  a  proof  to  Castle- 
wood.  I  would  not  seek  it  when  I  was  abroad.  I  went  and 
looked  at  my  poor  mother's  grave  in  her  convent.  What  mat- 
ter to  her  now?  No  court  of  law  on  earth,  upon  my  mere  word, 
would  deprive  my  Lord  Viscount  and  set  me  up.  I  am  the 
head  of  the  house,  dear  lady  ;  but  Frank  is  Viscount  of  Castle- 
wood  still.  And  rather  than  disturb  him,  I  would  turn  monk, 
or  disappear  in  America." 

As  he  spoke  so  to  his  dearest  mistress,  for  whom  he  would 
have  been  willing  to  give  up  his  life,  or  to  make  any  sacrifice 
any  day,  the  fond  creature  flung  herself  down  on  her  knees 
before  him,  and  kissed  both  his  hands  in  an  outbreak  of  pas- 
sionate love  and  gratitude,  such  as  could  not  but  melt  his  heart, 
and  make  him  feel  verj^  proud  and  thankful  that  God  had  given 
him  the  power  to  show  his  love  for  her,  and  to  prove  it  by  some 
little  sacrifice  on  his  own  part.  To  be  able  to  bestow  benefits 
or  happiness  on  those  one  loves  is  sure  the  greatest  blessing 
conferred  upon  a  man  —  and  what  wealth  or  name,  or  gratifi- 
cation of  ambition  or  vanity,  could  compare  with  the  pleasure 
Esmond  now  had  of  being  able  to  confer  some  kindness  upon 
his  best  and  dearest  friends? 

"Dearest  saint,"  says  he  —  "purest  soul,  that  has  had  so 
much  to  suffer,  that  has  blest  the  poor  lonely"  orphan  with  such 
a  treasure  of  love.  'Tis  for  me  to  kneel,  not  for  3'ou  :  'tis  for 
me  to  be  thankful  that  I  can  make  you  happj^  Hath  my  life 
any  other  aim  ?  Blessed  be  God  that  I  can  serve  3'ou  !  What 
pleasure,  think  3'ou,  could  all  the  world  give  me  compared  to 
that?" 

"  Don't  raise  me,"  she  said,  in  a  wild  way,  to  Esmond,  who 
would  have  lifted  her.  "  Let  me  kneel  —  let  me  kneel,  and  — 
and  —  worship  you." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  295 

Before  such  a  partial  judge  as  Esmond's  dear  mistress  owned 
herself  to  be,  an}'  cause  which  he  might  plead  was  sure  to  be 
given  in  his  favor ;  and  aceordingl}'  he  found  little  difficulty 
in  reconciling  her  to  the  news  whereof  he  was  bearer,  of  hex 
son's  marriage  to  a  foreign  lad,y.  Papist  though  she  was.  Lady 
Castle  wood  never  could  be  brought  to  think  so  ill  of  that  re- 
ligion as  other  people  in  England  thought  of  it :  she  held  that 
ours  was  undoubtedl}'  a  branch  of  the  Catholic  church,  but  that 
the  Roman  was  one  of  the  main  stems  on  which,  no  doubt, 
many  errors  had  been  grafted  (she  was,  for  a  woman,  extraor- 
dinarily well  versed  in  this  controversy,  having  acted,  as  a  girl, 
as  secretary  to  her  father,  the  late  dean,  and  written  many  of 
his  sermons,  under  his  dictation)  ;  and  if  Frank  had  chosen 
to  marry  a  lady  of  the  church  of  south  Europe,  as  she  would 
call  the  Roman  communion,  there  was  no  need  why  she  should 
not  welcome  her  as  a  daughter-in-law :  and  accordingly  she 
wrote  to  her  new  daughter  a  ver}'  pretty,  touching  letter  (as 
Esmond  thought,  who  had  cognizance  of  it  before  it  went),  in 
which  the  onl}'  hint  of  reproof  was  a  gentle  remonstrance  that 
her  son  had  not  written  to  herself,  to  ask  a  fond  mother's  bless- 
ing for  that  step  whicli  he  was  about  taking.  "  Castlewood 
knew  ver}'  well,"  so  she  wrote  to  her  son,  ''that  she  never 
denied  him  anything  in  her  power  to  give,  much  less  would  she 
think  of  opposing  a  marriage  that  was  to  make  his  happiness, 
as  she  trusted,  and  keep  him  out  of  wild  courses,  which  had 
alarmed  her  a  good  deal : "  and  she  besought  him  to  come 
quickly  to  England,  to  settle  down  in  his  familj^  house  of 
Castle  wood  (''It  is  his  family  house,"  says  she,  to  Colonel 
Esmond,  "though  only  his  own  house  by  your  forbearance") 
and  to  receive  the  accompt  of  her  stewardship  during  his  ten 
years'  minority;  By  care  and  frugality,  she  had  got  the  estate 
into  a  better  condition  than  ever  it  had  been  since  the  Parlia- 
mentar}'  wars  ;  and  my  lord  was  now  master  of  a  pretty,  small 
income,  not  encumbered  of  debts,  as  it  had  been,  during  his 
father's  ruinous  time.  "  But  in  saving  my  son's  fortune,"  says 
she,  "I  fear  I  have  lost  a  great  part  of  my  hold  on  him.'* 
And,  indeed,  this  was  the  case:  her  ladyship's  daughter  com- 
plaining that  their  mother  did  all  for  Frank,  and  nothing  for 
her  ;  and  Frank  himself  being  dissatisfied  at  the  narrow,  simple 
way  of  his  mother's  living  at  Walcote,  where  he  had  been 
brought  up  more  like  a  poor  parson's  son  than  a  3'oung  noble- 
man that  was  to  make  a  figure  in  the  world.  'Twas  this  mistake 
in  his  early  training,  very  likely,  that  set  him  so  eager  upon 
pleasure  when  he  had  it  in  his  power ;  nor  is  he  the  first  lad 


296  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

that  has  been  spoiled  by  the  over-careful  fondness  of  women. 
No  training  is  so  useful  for  children,  great  or  small,  as  the 
company  of  their  betters  in  rank  or  natural  parts ;  in  whose 
society  they  lose  the  overweening  sense  of  their  own  impor- 
tance, which  stay-at-home  people  very  commonl}^  learn. 

But,  as  a  prodigal  that's  sending  in  a  schedule  of  his  debts 
to  his  friends,  never  puts  all  down,  and,  you  may  be  sure,  the 
rogue  keeps  back  some  immense  swingeing  bill,  that  he  doesn't 
dare  to  own  ;  so  the  poor  Frank  had  a  very  heav}'  piece  of  news 
to  break  to  his  mother,  and  which  he  hadn't  the  courage  to 
introduce  into  his  first  confession.  Some  misgivings  Esmond 
might  have,  upon  receiving  Frank's  letter,  and  knowing  into 
what  hands  the  boy  had  fallen  ;  but  whatever  these  misgivings 
were,  he  kept  them  to  himself,  not  caring  to  trouble  his  mistress 
with  any  fears  that  might  be  groundless. 

However,  the  next  mail  which  came  from  Bruxelles,  after 
Frank  had  received  his  mother's  letters  there,  brought  back  a 
joint  composition  from  himself  and  his  wife,  who  could  spell  no 
better  than  her  young  scapegrace  of  a  husband,  full  of  expres- 
sions of  thanks,  love,  and  duty  to  the  Dowager  Viscountess,  as 
my  poor  lady  now  was  styled  ;  and  along  witli  this  letter  (which 
was  read  in  a  family  council,  namely,  the  Viscountess,  Mistress 
Beatrix,  and  the  writer  of  this  memoir,  and  which  was  pro- 
nounced to  be  vulgar  by  the  maid  of  honor,  and  felt  to  be  so 
by  the  other  two),  there  came  a  private  letter  for  Colonel 
Esmond  from  poor  Frank,  with  another  dismal  commission  for 
the  Colonel  to  execute,  at  his  best  opportunity^ ;  and  this  was 
to  announce  that  Frank  had  seen  fit,  "  b}'  the  exhortation  of 
Mr.  Holt,  the  influence  of  his  Clotilda,  and  the  blessing  of 
heaven  and  the  saints,"  says  my  lord,  demurely,  "to  change 
his  rehgion,  and  be  received  into  the  bosom  of  that  church  of 
which  his  sovereign,  man}-  of  his  familj',  and  the  greater  part 
of  the  civilized  world,  were  members."  And  his  lordship  added 
a  postscript,  of  which  Esmond  knew  the  inspiring  genius  very 
well,  for  it  had  the  genuine  twang  of  the  Seminar}^  and  was 
quite  unlike  poor  Frank's  ordinary  style  of  writing  and  think- 
ing ;  in  which  he  reminded  Colonel  Esmond  that  he  too  was, 
by  birth,  of  that  church  ;  and  that  his  mother  and  sister  should 
have  his  lordship's  pra^^ers  to  the  saints  (an  inestimable  benefit, 
truly  !)  for  their  conversion. 

If  Esmond  had  wanted  to  keep  this  secret,  he  could  not ;  for 
a  day  or  two  after  receiving  this  letter,  a  notice  from  Bruxelles 
appeared  in  the  Post-Boy  and  other  prints,  announcing  that  "  a 
young  Irish  lord,  the  Viscount  C-stlew — d,  just  come  to  his 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  297 

majorit3%  and  who  had  served  the  last  campaigns  with  great 
credit,  as  aide-de-camp  to  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
had  declared  for  the  Popish  religion  at  Bruxelles,  and  had 
walked  in  a  procession  barefoot,  with  a  wax-taper  in  his  hand." 
The  notorious  Mr.  Holt,  who  had  been  emploj'ed  as  a  Jacobite 
agent  during  the  last  reign,  and  man}^  times  pardoned  by  King 
William,  had  been,  the  Fost-Boy  said,  the  agent  of  this  con- 
version. 

The  Lad}'  Castlewood  was  as  much  cast  down  by  this  news 
as  Miss  Beatrix  was  indignant  at  it.  "  So,"  saj's  she,  "  Castle- 
wood is  no  longer  a  home  for  us,  mother.  Frank's  foreign  wife 
will  bring  her  confessor,  and  there  will  be  frogs  for  dinner  ;  and 
all  Tusher's  and  my  grandfather's  sermons  are  flung  away  upon 
m}^  brother.  I  used  to  tell  3'ou  that  you  killed  him  with  the 
catechism,  and  that  he  would  turn  wicked  as  soon  as  he  broke 
from  hismamm3''s  leading-strings.  Oh,  mother,  30U  would  not 
believe  that  the  young  scapegrace  was  playing  3'ou  tricks,  and 
that  sneak  of  a  Tusher  was  not  a  fit  guide  for  him.  Oh,  those 
parsons,  I  hate  'em  all !  "  says  Mistress  Beatrix,  clapping  her 
hands  together  ;  "  3'es,  whether  they  wear  cassocks  and  buckles ^ 
or  beards  and  bare  feet.  There's  a  horrid  Irish  wretch  who 
never  misses  a  Sunda3'  at  Court,  and  who  pays  me  compliments 
there,  the  horrible  man  ;  and  if  you  want  to  know  what  parsons 
are,  3^ou  should  see  his  behavior,  and  hear  him  talk  of  his  own 
cloth.  They're  all  the  same,  whether  the3''re  bishops,  or  bonzes, 
or  Indian  fakirs.  They  try  to  domineer,  and  they  frighten  us 
with  kingdom  come  ;  and  they  wear  a  sanctified  air  in  pubhc, 
and  expect  us  to  go  down  on  our  knees  and  ask  their  blessing ; 
and  they  intrigue,  and  they  grasp,  and  they  backbite,  and  they 
slander  worse  than  the  worst  courtier  or  the  wickedest  old 
woman.  I  heard  this  Mr.  Swift  sneering  at  my  Lord  Duke  of 
Marlborough's  courage  the  other  day.  He  !  that  Teague  from 
DubUn  !  because  his  Grace  is  not  in  favor,  dares  to  say  this  of 
him ;  and  he  says  this  that  it  may  get  to  her  Majesty's  ear,  and 
to  coax  and  wheedle  Mrs.  Masham.  They  say  the  Elector  of 
Hanover  has  a  dozen  of  mistresses  in  his  court  at  Herrenhausen, 
and  if  he  comes  to  be  king  over  us,  I  wager  that  the  bishops 
and  Mr.  Swift,  that  wants  to  be  one,  will  coax  and  wiieedle 
them.  Oh,  those  priests  and  their  grave  airs  !  I'm  sick  of  their 
square  toes  and  their  rustling  cassocks.  I  should  like  to  go  to 
a  country  where  there  was  not  one,  or  turn  Quaker,  and  get  rid 
of 'em  ;  and  I  would,  only  the  dress  is  not  becoming,  and  I've 
much  too  pretty  a  figure  to  hide  it.  Haven't  I,  cousin  ?  "  and 
here  she  glanced  at  her  person  and  the  looking-glass,  which  told 


298  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

her  rightly  that  a  more  beautiful  shape  and  face  never  were 
seen. 

"  I  made  that  onslaught  on  the  priests,"  says  Miss  Beatrix, 
afterwards,  "  in  order  to  divert  my  poor  dear  mother's  anguish 
about  Frank.  Frank  is  as  vain  as  a  girl,  cousin.  Talk  of  us 
girls  being  vain,  what  are  we  to  3'ou?  It  was  easy  to  see  that 
the  first  woman  who  chose  would  make  a  fool  of  him,  or  the 
first  robe  —  I  count  a  priest  and  a  woman  all  the  same.  We 
are  always  cabaUing ;  we  are  not  answerable  for  the  fibs  we 
tell ;  we  are  alwaj's  cajoling  and  coaxing,  or  threatening ;  and 
we  are  alwa3's  making  mischief,  Colonel  Esmond  —  mark  m^- 
word  for  that,  who  know  the  world,  sir,  and  have  to  make  m}- 
way  in  it.  I  see  as  well  as  possible  how  Frank's  marriage  hath 
been  managed.  The  Count,  our  papa-in-law,  is  always  away  at 
the  coff'ee-house.  The  Countess,  our  mother,  is  alwaj^s  in  the 
kitchen  looking  after  the  dinner.  The  Countess,  our  sister,  is 
at  the  spinet.  When  my  lord  comes  to  say  he  is  going  on  the 
campaign,  the  lovely  Clotilda  bursts  into  tears,  and  faints  —  so  ; 
he  catches  her  in  his  arms  —  no,  sir,  keep  your  distance,  cousin, 
if  you  please  —  she  cries  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  says,  '  Oh,  my 
divine,  my  adored,  my  beloved  Clotilda,  are  3'ou  sorry  to  part 
with  me  ? '  '  Oh,  my  Francisco,'  says  she,  '  oh  my  lord  ! '  and  at 
this  ver}'  instant  mamma  and  a  couple  of  young  brothers,  with 
moustaches  and  long  rapiers,  come  in  from  the  kitchen,  where 
they  have  been  eating  bread  and  onions.  Mark  ni}^  word,  you 
will  have  all  this  woman's  relations  at  Castlewood  three  months 
after  she  has  arrived  there.  The  old  count  and  countess,  and 
the  3'oung  counts  and  all  the  little  countesses  her  sisters. 
Counts  !  ever}'  one  of  these  wretches  says  he  is  a  count.  Guis- 
card,  that  stabbed  Mr.  Harvey,  said  he  was  a  count ;  and  I 
believe  he  was  a  barber.  All  Frenchmen  are  barbers  —  Fiddle- 
dee  !  don't  contradict  me  —  or  else  dancing-masters,  or  else 
priests."     And  so  she  rattled  on. 

"Who  was  it  taught  ^ow  to  dance,  Cousin  Beatrix?"  saj'S 
the  Colonel. 

She  laughed  out  the  air  of  a  minuet,  and  sw3pt  a  low  curtsy, 
coming  up  to  the  recover  with  the  prettiest  little  foot  in  the 
world  pointed  out.  Her  mother  came  in  as  she  was  in  this  atti- 
tude ;  my  lady  had  been  in  her  closet,  having  taken  poor  Frank's 
conversion  in  a  ver}'  serious  wa}' ;  the  madcap  girl  ran  up  to  her 
mother,  put  her  arms  round  her  waist,  kissed  her,  tried  to  make 
her  dance,  and  said :  "  Don't  be  silly,  3'ou  kind  little  mamma, 
and  cry  about  Frank  turning  Papist.  What  a  figure  he  must 
be,  with  a  white  sheet  and  a  candle,  walking  in  a  procession 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND.  290 

barefoot !  "  And  she  kicked  off  her  little  slippers  (the  wonder- 
fullest  little  shoes  with  wonderful  tall  red  heels  :  Esmond  pounced 
upon  one  as  it  fell  close  beside  him),  and  she  put  on  the  droll- 
est little  moue^  and  marched  up  and  down  the  room  holding 
Esmond's  cane  b}^  wa}"  of  taper.  Serious  as  her  mood  was, 
Lady  Castlewood  could  not  refrain  from  laughing  ;  and  as  for 
Esmond  he  looked  on  with  that  delight  with  which  the  sight  of 
this  fair  creature  always  inspired  him :  never  had  he  seen  any 
woman  so  arch,  so  brilhant,  and  so  beautiful. 

Having  finished  her  march,  she  put  out  her  foot  for  her 
slipper.  The  Colonel  knelt  down  :  "  If  3-0U  will  be  Pope  I  will 
turn  Papist,"  says  he  ;  and  her  Holiness  gave  him  gracious 
leave  to  kiss  the  little  stockinged  foot  before  he  put  the  slip- 
per on. 

Mamma's  feet  began  to  pat  on  the  floor  during  this  opera- 
tion, and  Beatrix,  whose  bright  e3^es  nothing  escaped,  saw  that 
little  mark  of  impatience.  She  ran  up  and  embraced  her 
mother,  with  her  usual  cry  of,  "Oh,  you  silly  httle  mamma: 
your  feet  are  quite  as  pretty  as  mine,"  sa^'s  she:  "they  are, 
cousin,  though  she  hides  'em  ;  but  the  shoemaker  will  tell  you 
that  he  makes  for  both  off  the  same  last." 

"You  are  taller  than  I  am,  dearest,"  saj's  her  mother, 
blushing  oyer  her  whole  sweet  face — "and  —  and  it  is  your 
hand,  m}'  dear,  and  not  3'our  foot  he  wants  you  to  give  him  ;  "  and 
slie  said  it  with  a  hysteric  laugh,  that  had  more  of  tears  than 
laughter  in  it ;  laying  her  head  on  her  daughter's  fair  shoulder, 
and  hiding  it  there.  The\'  made  a  ver}'  prett}^  picture  together, 
and  looked  like  a  pair  of  sisters  —  the  sweet  simple  matron 
seeming  vounger  than  her  years,  and  her  daughter,  if  not  older, 
yet  somehow,  from  a  commanding  manner  and  grace  which  she 
possessed  above  most  women,  her  mother's  superior  and  pro- 
tectress. 

"But  oh!"  cries  my  mistress,  recovering  herself  after  this 
scene,  and  returning  to  her  usual  sad  tone,  "  'tis  a  shame  that 
we  should  laugh  and  be  making  merry  on  a  day  when  we  ought 
to  be  down  on  our  knees  and  asking  pardon." 

"Asking  pardon  for  what?"  sa3's  saucy  Mrs.  Beatrix  — 
"because  Frank  takes  it  into  his  head  to  fast  on  Fridays  and 
worship  images?  You  know  if3^ou  had  been  born  a  Papist, 
mother,  a  Papist  you  would  have  remained  to  the  end  of  3'our 
days.  'Tis  the  religion  of  the  King  and  of  some  of  the  best 
qualitj-.  For  m3'  part,  I'm  no  enem3^  to  it,  and  think  Queen 
Bess  was  not  a  penn3^  better  than  Queen  Mar3\" 

"  Hush,  Beatrix !     Do   not  jest  with   sacred   things,    and 


300  THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND. 

remember  of  what  parentage  3^011  come,"  cries  my  lady.  Bea- 
trix was  ordering  her  ribbons,  and  adjusting  her  tucker,  and 
performing  a  dozen  provoking!}'  pretty  ceremonies,  before  the 
glass.  The  girl  was  no  hypocrite  at  least.  She  never  at  that 
time  could  be  brought  to  think  but  of  the  world  and  her  beauty  ; 
and  seemed  to  have  no  more  sense  of  devotion  than  some  peo- 
ple have  of  music,  that  cannot  distinguish  one  air  from  another. 
Esmond  saw  this  fault  in  her,  as  he  saw  man}'  others  —  a  bad 
wife  would  Beatrix  Esmond  make,  he  thought,  for  any  man 
under  the  degree  of  a  Prince.  She  was  born  to  shine  in  great 
assemblies,  and  to  adorn  palaces,  and  to  command  everywhere  — 
to  conduct  an  intrigue  of  politics,  or  to  glitter  in  a  queen's 
train.  But  to  sit  at  a  homely  table,  and  mend  the  stockings 
of  a  poor  man's  children !  that  was  no  fitting  duty  for  her, 
or  at  least  one  that  she  wouldn't  have  broke  her  heart  in  try- 
ing to  do.  She  was  a  princess,  though  she  had  scarce  a  shilling 
to  her  fortune  ;  and  one  of  her  subjects  —  the  most  abject  and 
devoted  wretch,  sure,  that  ever  drivelled  at  a  woman's  knees  — 
was  this  unlucky  gentleman ;  who  bound  his  good  sense,  and 
reason,  and  independence,  hand  and  foot,  and  submitted  them 
to  her. 

And  who  does  not  know  how  ruthlessl}'  women  will  t^'rannize 
when  they  are  let  to  domineer?  and  who  does  not  know  how 
useless  advice  is  ?  I  could  give  good  counsel  to  my  descend- 
ants, but  I  know  they'll  follow  their  own  way,  for  all  their 
grandfather's  sermon.  A  man  gets  his  own  experience  about 
women,  and  will  take  nobody's  hearsay ;  nor,  indeed,  is  the 
3^oung  fellow  worth  a  fig  that  would.  'Tis  I  that  am  in  love 
with  my  mistress,  not  my  old  grandmother  that  counsels  me : 
'tis  I  that  have  fixed  the  value  of  the  thing  I  would  have,  and 
know  the  price  I  would  pa}' for  it.  It  may  be  worthless  to  you, 
but  'tis  all  my  life  to  me.  Had  Esmond  possessed  the  Great 
Mogul's  crown  and  all  his  diamonds,  or  all  the  Duke  of  Marlbor- 
ough's money,  or  all  the  ingots  sunk  at  Vigo,  he  would  have 
given  them  all  for  this  woman.  A  fool  he  was,  if  you  will ;  but 
so  is  a  sovereign  a  fool,  that  will  give  half  a  principality  for  a 
little  crystal  as  big  as  a  pigeon's  egg,  and  called  a  diamond  : 
so  is  a  wealthy  nobleman  a  fool,  that  will  face  danger  or  death, 
and  spend  half  his  life,  and  all  his  tranquillity,  cabalhng  for 
a  blue  ribbon ;  so  is  a  Dutch  merchant  a  fool,  that  hath  been 
known  to  pay  ten  thousand  crowns  for  a  tulip.  There's  some 
particular  prize  we  all  of  us  value,  and  that  every  man  of  spirit 
will  venture  his  life  for.  With  this,  it  may  be  to  achieve  a 
great  reputation  for  learning  ;  with  that,  to  be  a  man  of  fashion, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  301 

and  the  admiration  of  the  town  ;  with  another,  to  consum- 
mate a  great  work  of  art  or  poetry,  and  go  to  immortaUt}^ 
that  way  ;  and  with  another,  for  a  certain  time  of  his  life,  the 
sole  object  and  aim  is  a  woman. 

Whilst  Esmond  was  under  the  domination  of  this  passion, 
he  remembers  man}^  a  talk  he  had  with  his  intimates,  who  used 
to  rally  Our  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance  at  his  devotion, 
whereof  he  made  no  disguise,  to  Beatrix ;  and  it  was  with 
replies  such  as  the  above  he  met  his  friends'  satire.  ''  Granted, 
I  am  a  fool,"  sa3'S  he,  "  and  no  better  than  you  ;  but  you  are 
no  better  than  I.  You  have  your  folly  you  labor  for  ;  give  me 
the  charity  of  mine.  What  flatteries  do  3'ou,  Mr.  St.  John, 
stoop  to  whisper  in  the  ears  of  a  queen's  favorite  ?  What 
nights  of  labor  doth  not  the  laziest  man  in  the  world  endure, 
foregoing  his  bottle,  and  his  boon  companions,  foregoing  Lais, 
in  whose  lap  he  would  like  to  be  yawning,  that  he  may  prepare 
a  speech  full  of  lies,  to  cajole  three  hundred  stupid  countr}'- 
gentlemen  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  get  the  hiccupping 
cheers  of  the  October  Club !  What  days  will  3'ou  spend  in 
your  jolting  chariot."  (Mr.  Esmond  often  rode  to  Windsor, 
and  especiall}^  of  later  daj's,  with  the  secretar}-.)  "What 
hours  will  3'ou  pass  on  3'our  gout3'  feet  —  and  how  humbly  will 
3'ou  kneel  down  to  present  a  despatch  —  you,  the  proudest  man 
in  the  world,  that  has  not  knelt  to  God  since  you  were  a  boy, 
and  in  that  posture  whisper,  flatter,  adore  almost,  a  stupid 
woman,  that's  often  boozy  with  too  much  meat  and  drink, 
when  Mr.  Secretar3"  goes  for  his  audience !  If  m3'  pursuit  is 
vanit3^,  sure  3'ours  is  too."  And  then  the  Secretar3'  would  fly 
out  in  such  a  rich  flow  of  eloquence,  as  this  pen  cannot  pretend 
to  recall ;  advocating  his  scheme  of  ambition,  showing  the 
great  good  he  would  do  for  his  country  when  he  was  the  undis- 
puted chief  of  it ;  backing  his  opinion  with  a  score  of  pat  sen- 
tences from  Greek  and  Roman  authorities  (of  which  kind  of 
learning  he  made  rather  an  ostentatious  displa3"),  and  scornfully 
vaunting  the  very  arts  and  meannesses  b3"  which  fools  were  to 
be  made  to  follow  him,  opponents  to  be  bribed  or  silenced, 
doubters  converted,  and  enemies  overawed. 

"I  am  Diogenes,"  says  Esmond,  laughing,  "that  is  taken 
up  for  a  ride  in  Alexander's  chariot.  I  have  no  desire  to  van- 
quish Darius  or  to  tame  Bucephalus.  I  do  not  want  what  3^ou 
want,  a  great  name  or  a  high  place  :  to  have  them  would  bring 
me  no  pleasure.  But  my  moderation  is  taste,  not  virtue  :  and 
I  know  that  what  I  do  want  is  as  vain  as  that  which  you  long 
after.     Do  not  grudge   me   my  vanit}^,  if  I   allow  yours ;  or 


302  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

rather,  let  ns  laugh  at  both  indifferently,  and  at  ourselves,  and 
at  each  other." 

''If  your  charmer  holds  out,"  says  St.  John,  "at  this  rats 
she  may  keep  you  twenty  years  besieging  her,  and  surrender 
by  the  time  you  are  seventy,  and  she  is  old  enough  to  be  a 
grandmother.  I  do  not  say  the  pursuit  of  a  particular  woman 
is  not  as  pleasant  a  pastime  as  any  other  kind  of  hunting,"  he 
added;  "only,  for  my  part,  I  find  the  game  won't  run  long 
enough.  They  knock  under  too  soon  —  that's  the  fault  I  find 
with  'em." 

"  The  game  which  you  pursue  is  in  the  habit  of  being  caught, 
and  used  to  being  pulled  down,"  says  Mr.  Esmond. 

"  But  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  is  peerless,  eh?"  sa3's  the  other. 
"Well,  honest  Harry,  go  and  attack  windmills  —  perhaps  thou 
art  not  more  mad  than  other  people,"  St.  John  added,  with 
a  sigh. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  PAPER   OUT    OF   THE    "SPECTATOR." 

Doth  any  3'oung  gentleman  of  my  progeny,  who  ma}^  read 
his  old  grandfather's  papers,  chance  to  be  presently  suffering 
under  the  passion  of  Love?  There  is  a  humiliating  cure,  but 
one  that  is  easy  and  almost  specific  for  the  malady  —  which  is, 
to  try  an  alibi.  Esmond  went  away  from  his  mistress  and  was 
cured  a  half-dozen  times  ;  he  came  back  to  her  side,  and  in- 
stantl}'  fell  ill  again  of  the  fever.  He  vowed  that  he  could 
leave  her  and  think  no  more  of  her,  and  so  he  could  pretty 
well,  at  least,  succeed  in  quelhng  that  rage  and  longing  he  had 
whenever  he  was  with  her ;  but  as  soon  as  he  returned  he  was 
as  bad  as  ever  again.  Trul}^  a  ludicrous  and  pitiable  object, 
at  least  exhausting  everybody's  pity  but  his  dearest  mistress's. 
Lady  Castlewood's,  in  whose  tender  breast  he  reposed  all  his 
dreary  confessions,  and  who  never  tired  of  hearing  him  and 
pleading  for  him. 

Sometimes  Esmond  would  think  there  was  hope.  Then 
again  he  would  be  plagued  with  despair,  at  some  impertinence 
or  coquetry  of  his  mistress.  For  days  they  would  be  like 
brother  and  sister,  or  the  dearest  friends  —  she,  simple,  fond, 
and  charming  —  he,  happ}^  beyond  measure  at  her  good  be- 
havior.    But  this  would  aU  vanish  on  a  sudden.     Either  he 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND.  303 

would  be  too  pressing,  and  hint  his  love,  when  she  would  rebuff 
him  instant!}',  and  give  his  vanity  a  box  on  the  ear ;  or  he 
would  be  jealous,  and  with  perfect  good  reason,  of  some  new 
admirer  that  had  sprung  up,  or  some  rich  young  gentleman 
newly  arrived  in  the  town,  that  this  incorrigible  flirt  would  set 
her  nets  and  baits  to  draw  in.  If  Esmond  remonstrated,  the 
little  rebel  would  say  —  ' '  Who  are  3'ou  ?  I  shall  go  my  own 
way,  sirrah,  and  that  wa}'  is  towards  a  husband,  and  I  don't 
want  you  on  the  wa}^  I  am  for  your  betters,  Colonel,  for  your 
betters  :  do  3'oti  hear  that?  You  might  do  if  you  had  an  estate 
and  were  3'ounger ;  only  eight  3'ears  older  than  I,  you  say ! 
pish,  3'ou  are  a  hundred  3'ears  older.  You  are  an  old,  old 
Graveairs,  and  I  should  make  you  miserable,  that  would  be 
the  onl\'  comfort  I  should  have  in  marrying  you.  But  you 
have  not  mone}'  enough  to  keep  a  cat  decently  after  3'ou  have 
paid  3'our  man  his  wages,  and  your  landladj^  her  bill.  Do  3^ou 
think  I  am  going  to  live  in  a  lodging,  and  tur.  the  mutton  at  a 
string  whilst  your  honor  nurses  the  bab3'?  Plddlestick,  and 
wh3'  did  you  not  get  this  nonsense  knocked  out  of  your  head 
when  3'ou  were  in  the  wars  ?  You  are  come  back  more  dismal 
and  dreary  than  ever.  You  and  mamma  are  fit  for  each  other. 
You  might  be  Darby  and  Joan,  and  play  cribbage  to  the  end 
of  3^our  liv^es." 

"At  least  3'ou  own  to  3^our  worldhness,  my  poor  Trix," 
sa3's  her  mother. 

"  Worldhness.  Oh,  my  pretty  lady  !  Do  you  think  that  I 
am  a  child  in  the  nursery,  and  to  be  frightened  by  Bogey ! 
Worldhness,  to  be  sure;  and  pray,  madam,  where  is' the  harm 
of  wishing  to  be  comfortable  ?  When  you  are  gone,  you  dearest 
old  woman,  or  when  I  am  tired  of  you  and  have  run  away  from 
you,  where  shall  I  go?  Shall  I  go  and  be  head  nurse  to  my 
Popish  sister-in-law,  take  the  children  their  physic,  and  whip 
'em,  and  put  'em  to  bed  when  they  are  naughty?  Shall  I  be 
Castlewood's  upper  servant,  and  perhaps  marry  Tom  Tusher? 
Merci!  I  have  been  long  enough  Fi'ank's  humble  servant. 
Why  am  I  not  a  man?  I  have  ten  times  his  l)rains,  and  had  I 
worn  the — well,  don't  let  your  ladyship  be  frightened  —  had 
I  worn  a  sword  and  periwig  instead  of  this  mantle  and  com- 
mode to  which  nature  has  condemned  me — (though  'tis  a 
pretty  stuff,  too  —  Cousin  Esmond  !  you  will  go  to  the  Ex- 
change to-morrow,  and  get  the  exact  counterpart  of  this  ribbon, 
sir;  do  you  hear?) — I  would  have  made  our  name  talked 
about.  So  would  Graveairs  here  have  made  something  out  of 
our  name  if  he  had  represented  it.     My  Lord  Graveairs  would 


304  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

have  done  ver}^  well.  Yes,  you  have  a  very  pretty  way,  and 
would  have  made  a  very  decent,  grave  speaker."  And  here 
she  began  to  imitate  Esmond's  way  of  carrying  himself  and 
speaking  to  his  face,  and  so  ludicrously  that  his  mistress  burst 
out  a-laughing,  and  even  he  himself  could  see  there  was  some 
likeness  in  the  fantastical  malicious  caricature. 

"Yes,"  sa3's  she,  "I  solemnly  vow,  own,  and  confess,  that 
I  want  a  good  husband.  Where's  the  harm  of  one?  My  face 
is  my  fortune.  Who'll  come?  —  buy,  buy,  buy!  I  cannot 
toil,  neither  can  I  spin,  but  I  can  pla}^  twenty-three  games  on 
the  cards.  I  can  dance  the  last  dance,  I  can  hunt  the  stag, 
and  I  think  I  could  shoot  flying.  I  can  talk  as  wicked  as  any 
woman  of  ni}^  years,  and  know  enough  stories  to  amuse  a  sulky 
husband  for  at  least  one  thousand  and  one  nights.  I  have  a 
pretty  taste  for  dress,  diamonds,  gambling,  and  old  China.  I 
love  sugar-plums,  Malines  lace  (that  3'ou  brought  me,  cousin, 
is  ver}^  prett}^),  the  opera,  and  everything  that  is  useless  and 
costly.  I  have  got  a  monkey  and  a  little  black  bo}'  —  Pompey., 
sir,  go  and  give  a  dish  of  chocolate  to  Colonel  Graveairs,  — 
and  a  parrot  and  a  spaniel,  and  I  must  have  a  husband.  Cupid, 
you  hear?  " 

"  Iss,  Missis!"  sa3^s  Pompey,  a  little  grinning  negro  Lord 
Peterborrow  gave  her,  with  a  bird  of  Paradise  in  his  turbant, 
and  a  collar  with  his  mistress's  name  on  it. 

"Iss,  Missis!"  says  Beatrix,  imitating  the  child.  "And 
if  husband  not  come,  Pompey  must  go  fetch  one." 

And  Pompe}'  went  awa}^  grinning  with  his  chocolate  tray  as 
Miss  Beatrix  ran  up  to  her  mother  and  ended  her  sally  of  mis- 
chief in  her  common  wa}^  with  a  kiss  —  no  wonder  that  upon 
paying  such  a  penalty  her  fond  judge  pardoned  her. 

When  Mr.  Esmond  came  home,  his  health  was  still  shat- 
tered ;  and  he  took  a  lodging  near  to  his  mistresses,  at  Ken- 
sington, glad  enough  to  be  served  by  them,  and  to  see  them^ 
day  after  da}^  He  was  enabled  to  see  a  little  compan}^  —  and 
of  the  sort  he  liked  best.  Mr.  Steele  and  Mr.  Addison  both 
did  him  the  honor  to  visit  him ;  and  drank  many  a  glass  of 
good  claret  at  his  lodging,  whilst  their  entertainer,  through  his 
wound,  was  kept  to  diet  drink  and  gruel.  These  gentlemen 
were  Whigs,  and  great  admirers  of  my  Lord  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough ;  and  Esmond  was  entirel}^  of  the  other  party.  But 
their  different  views  of  politics  did  not  prevent  the  gentlemen 
from  agreeing  in  private,  nor  from  allowing,  on  one  evening 
when  Esmond's  kind    old  patron,  Lieutenant-General  Webb, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  305 

with  a  stick  and  a  crutch,  hobbled  up  to  the  Colonel's  lodging 
(which  Avas  prettily  situate  at  Knightsbridge,  between  London 
and  Kensington,  and  looking  over  the  Gardens),  that  the 
Lieutenant-General  was  a  noble  and  gallant  soldier  —  and  even 
that  he  had  been  hardl}'  used  in  the  W3'nendael  affair.  He 
took  his  revenge  in  talk,  that  must  be  confessed  ;  and  if  Mr. 
Addison  had  had  a  mind  to  write  a  poem  about  Wjnendael,  he 
might  have  heard  from  the  commander's  own  lips  the  storj-  a 
hundred  times  over. 

Mr.  Esmond,  forced  to  be  quiet,  betook  himself  to  htera- 
ture  for  a  relaxation,  and  composed  his  comedy,  whereof  the 
prompter's  copy  lieth  in  my  walnut  escritoire,  sealed  up  and 
docketed,  "  The  Faithful  Fool,  a  Comedy,  as  it  was  performed 
by  her  Majesty's  Servants."  'Twas  a  verj^  sentimental  piece  ; 
and  Mr.  Steele,  who  had  more  of  that  kind  of  sentiment  than 
Mr.  Addison,  admired  it,  whilst  the  other  rather  sneered  at 
the  performance  ;  though  he  owned  that,  here  and  there,  it 
contained  some  pretty  strokes.  He  was  bringing  out  his  own 
play  of  ''Cato"  at  the  time,  the  blaze  of  which  quite  extin- 
guished Esmond's  farthing  candle ;  and  his  name  was  never 
put  to  the  piece,  which  was  printed  as  by  a  Person  of  Quality. 
Only  nine  copies  were  sold,  though  Mr.  Dennis,  the  great  critic, 
praised  it,  and  said  'twas  a  work  of  great  mei'it ;  and  Colonel 
Esmond  had  the  whole  impression  burned  one  da}-  in  a  rage, 
by  Jack  Lockwood,  his  man. 

All  this  comed}-  was  full  of  bitter  satiric  strokes  against  a 
certain  3*oung  lad}'.  The  plot  of  the  piece  was  quite  a  new 
one.  A  3'oung  woman  was  represented  with  a  great  number  of 
suitors,  selecting  a  pert  fribble  of  a  peer,  in  place  of  the  hero 
(but  ill-acted,  I  think,  by  Mr.  Wilks,  the  Faithful  Fool,)  who 
persisted  in  admiring  her.  In  the  fifth  act,  Teraminta  was 
made  to  discover  the  merits  of  Eugenio  (the  F.  F.),  and  to  feel 
a  partialit}'  for  him  too  late  ;  for  he  announced  that  he  had 
bestowed  his  hand  and  estate  upon  Rosaria,  a  countr}-  lass,  en- 
dowed with  every  virtue.  But  it  must  be  owned  that  the  audi- 
ence yawned  through  the  play ;  and  that  it  perished  on  the 
third  night,  with  only  half  a  dozen  persons  to  behold  its  agonies. 
Esmond  and  his  two  mistresses  came  to  the  first  night,  and 
Miss  Beatrix  fell  asleep  ;  whilst  her  mother,  who  had  not  been 
to  a  pla}^  since  King  James  the  Second's  time,  thought  the 
piece,  though  not  brilliant,  had  a  ver}'  prett}^  moral. 

Mr.  Esmond  dabbled  in  letters,  and  wrote  a  deal  of  prose 
and  verse  at  this  time  of  leisure.  When  displeased  with  the 
conduct  of  Miss  Beatrix,  he  would  compose  a  satire,  in  which 

20 


306  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

he  relieved  his  mind.  When  smarting  under  the  faithlessness 
of  women,  he  dashed  off  a  copy  of  verses,  in  which  he  held  the 
whole  sex  up  to  scorn.  One  day,  in  one  of  these  moods,  he 
made  a  little  joke,  in  which  (swearing  him  to  secrecy)  he  got 
his  friend  Dick  Steele  to  help  him ;  and,  composing  a  paper, 
he  had  it  printed  exactly  like  Steele's  paper,  and  by  his  printer, 
and  laid  on  his  mistress's  breakfast-table  the  following  — 

"SPECTATOR. 

«  No.  341.  "  Tuesday,  April  1,  1712. 

Mutato  nomine  de  te  Fabula  narratur.  —  Horace. 
Thyself  the  moral  of  the  Fable  see.  —  Creech. 

"  Jocasta  is  known  as  a  woman  of  learning  and  fashion,  and  as  one  oi 
the  most  amiable  persons  of  this  court  and  country.  She  is  at  home  two 
mornings  of  the  week,  and  all  the  wits  and  a  few  of  the  beauties  of  London 
flock  to  her  assemblies.  Wlien  she  goes  abroad  to  Tunbridge  or  the  Bath, 
a  retinue  of  adorers  rides  the  journey  with  her ;  and  besides  the  London 
beaux,  slie  has  a  crowd  of  admirers  at  the  Wells,  the  polite  amongst  the 
natives  of  Sussex  and  Somerset  pressing  round  her  tea-tables,  and  being 
anxious  for  a  nod  from  her  chair.  Jocasta's  acquaintance  is  thus  very 
numerous.  Indeed,  'tis  one  smart  writer's  work  to  keep  her  visiting-book 
'—  a  strong  footman  is  engaged  to  carry  it ;  and  it  would  require  a  much 
stronger  liead  even  than  Jocasta's  own  to  remember  the  names  of  all  her 
dear  friends. 

"Either  at  Epsom  Wells  or  at  Tunbridge  (for  of  this  important  matter 
Jocasta  cannot  be  certain)  it  was  iier  ladyship's  fortune  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  a  young  gentleman,  whose  conversation  was  so  sprightly, 
and  manners  amiable,  that  she  invited  the  agreeable  young  spark  to  visit 
her  if  ever  he  came  to  London,  where  her  house  in  Spring  Garden  should 
V)e  open  to  him.  Charming  as  he  was,  and  without  any  manner  of  doubt  a 
pretty  fellow,  Jocasta  hath  such  a  regiment  of  the  like  continually  march- 
ing round  her  standard,  that  'tis  no  wonder  lier  attention  is  distracted 
amongst  them.  And  so,  though  this  gentleman  made  a  considerable  im- 
pression upon  her,  and  touched  her  heart  for  at  least  three-and-twenty 
minutes,  it  must  be  owned  that  she  has  forgotten  his  name.  He  is  a  dark 
man,  and  may  be  eight-and-twenty  years  old.  His  dress  is  sober,  though  of 
rich  materials.  He  has  a  mole  on  his  forehead  over  his  left  eye ;  has  a  blue 
ribbon  to  his  cane  and  sword,  and  wears  his  own  hair. 

"Jocasta  was  much  flattered  by  beholding  her  admirer  (for  that  every- 
body admires  who  sees  her  is  a  point  which  she  never  can  for  a  moment 
doubt)  in  the  next  pew  to  her  at  St.  James's  Church  last  Sunday ;  and  the 
manner  in  which  he  appeared  to  go  to  sleep  during  the  sermon  —  though 
from  under  his  fringed  eyelids  it  was  evident  he  was  casting  glances  of  re- 
spectful rapture  towards  Jocasta  —  deeply  moved  and  interested  her.  On 
coming  out  of  church,  he  found  his  way  to  her  chair,  and  made  her  an 
elegant  bow  as  she  stepped  into  it.  She  saw  him  at  Court  afterwards, 
where  he  carried  himself  with  a  most  distinguished  air,  though  none  of  her 
acquaintances  knew  his  name  ;  and  the  next  night  he  was  at  the  play,  where 
her  ladyship  was  pleased  to  acknowledge  him  from  the  side-box. 

"  During  the  whole  of  the  comedy  she  racked  her  brains  so  to  remem- 
ber his  name  that  she  did  not  hear  a  word  of  the  piece :  and  having  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  307 

happiness  to  meet  him  once  more  in  the  lobby  of  the  playliouse,  ihe  went 
up  to  him  in  a  Hutter,  and  bade  him  remember  that  slie  kept  two  nights  in 
the  weeli,  and  tiiat  she  longed  to  see  liim  at  Spring  Garden. 

"  He  appeared  on  Tue>.day,  in  a  rich  suit,  showing  a  very  fine  taste 
both  in  tlie  tailor  and  wearer  ;  and  though  a  Icnot  of  us  were  gathered  round 
the  charming  Jocasta,  fellows  who  pretended  to  know  every  face  upon  the 
town,  not  one  could  tell  the  gentleman's  name  in  reply  to  Jocasta's  eager 
inquiries,  flung  to  the  right  and  left  of  her  as  he  advanced  up  the  room 
with  a  bow  that  would  become  a  duke. 

"  Jocasta  acknowledged  this  salute  with  one  of  those  smiles  and  curtsies 
of  which  that  lady  hath  the  secret.  She  curtsies  with  a  languishing  air, 
as  if  to  say,  '  You  are  come  at  last.  I  have  been  pining  for  you  : '  and  then 
she  finishes  her  victim  with  a  killing  look,  which  declares  :  '0  Philander! 
I  have  no  eyes  but  for  you,'  Camilla  hath  as  good  a  curtsy  perhaps,  and 
Thalestris  much  such  another  look;  but  the  glance  and  the  curtsy  together 
belong  to  Jocasta  of  all  the  English  beauties  alone. 

"  '  Welcome  to  London,  sir,'  says  she.  '  One  can  see  you  are  from  the 
country  by  your  looks.'  !She  would  have  said  '  Epsom,'  or  '  Tun  bridge,' 
had  she  remembered  rightly  at  which  place  she  had  met  the  stranger ;  but, 
alas  !  she  had  forgotten. 

"  The  gentleman  said, '  he  had  been  in  town  but  three  days  ;  and  one  of 
his  reasons  for  coming  hither  was  to  have  the  honor  of  paying  his  court  to 
Jocasta.' 

"  She  said,  '  the  waters  had  agreed  with  her  but  indifferently.' 

"  '  The  waters  were  for  the  sick,'  the  gentleman  said  :  '  the  young  and 
beautiful  came  but  to  make  them  sparkle.  And  as  the  clergyman  read  the 
service  on  Sunday,' he  added, 'your  ladyship  reminded  me  of  the  angel 
that  visited  the  pool.'  A  murmur  of  approbation  saluted  this  sally. 
Manilio,  who  is  a  wit  when  he  is  not  at  cards,  was  in  such  a  rage  that  he 
revoked  when  he  heard  it. 

"Jocasta  was  an  angel  visiting  the  waters  ;  but  at  which  of  the  Bethes- 
das  1  She  was  puzzled  more  and  more;  and,  as  her  way  always  is,  looked 
the  more  innocent  and  simple,  the  more  artful  her  intentions  were. 

"  '  We  were  discoursing,'  says  she,  '  about  spelling  of  names  and  words 
when  you  came.  Why  should  we  say  goold  and  write  gold,  and  call  china 
chayney,  and  Cavendish  Candish,  and  Cholmondeley  Chumley  ?  If  we  call 
Pulteney  Poltney,  why  shouldn't  we  call  poultry  pultry  —  and  — ' 

"  '  Such  an  enchantress  as  your  ladyship,'  says  he,  '  is  mistress  of  all 
sorts  of  spells.'     But  this  was  Dr.  Swift's  pun,  and  we  all  knew  it. 

"  '  And  —  and  how  do  you  spell  your  name  ? '  says  she,  coming  to  the 
point  at  length  ;  for  this  sprightly  conversation  had  lasted  much  longer 
than  is  here  set  down,  and  been  carried  on  through  at  least  three  dishes  of  tea. 

"  '  Oh,  madam,'  says  he,  '  /  spell  my  name  with  the  y.^  And  laying  down 
his  dish,  my  gentleman  made  another  elegant  bow,  and  was  gone  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

"Jocasta  hath  had  no  sleep  since  this  mortification,  and  the  stranger's 
disappearance.  If  balked  in  anything,  she  is  sure  to  lose  her  health  and 
temper ;  and  we,  her  servants,  suffer,  as  usual,  during  the  angry  fits  of  our 
Queen.  Can  you  help  us,  Mr.  Spectator,  who  know  everything,  to  read 
this  riddle  for  her,  and  set  at  rest  all  our  minds  ?  We  find  in  her  list, 
Mr.  Berty,  Mr.  Smith,  Mr.  Pike,  Mr.  Tyler  —  who  may  be  Mr.  Bertie,  Mr. 
Smyth,  Mr.  Pyke,  Mr.  Tiler,  for  what  we  know.  She  hath  turned  away 
the  clerk  of  her  visiting-book,  a  poor  fellow  with  a  great  family  of  children. 
Read  me  this  riddle,  good  Mr.  Shortface,  and  oblige  your  admirer  — 
CEdipus." 


308  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 


"The  Trumpet  Coffee-house,  "Whitehall. 

"  Mr.  Spectator,  —  I  am  a  gentleman  but  little  acquainted  with  the 
town,  though  I  have  had  a  university  education,  and  passed  some  years 
serving  my  country  abroad,  where  my  name  is  better  known  than  in  the 
coffee-house  and  St.  James's. 

"  Two  years  since  my  uncle  died,  leaving  me  a  pretty  estate  in  the 
county  of  Kent ;  and  being  at  Tunbridge  Wells  last  summer,  after  my 
mourning  was  over,  and  on  the  look-out,  if  truth  must  be  told,  for  some 
young  lady  who  would  share  with  me  the  solitude  of  my  great  Kentish 
house,  and  be  kind  to  my  tenantry  (for  whom  a  woman  can  do  a  great  deal 
more  good  than  the  best-intentioned  man  can),  1  was  greatly  fascinated  by 
a  young  lady  of  London,  who  was  the  toast  of  all  the  company  at  the 
Wells.  Every  one  knows  Saccharissa's  beauty  ;  and  I  think,  Mr.  Spectator, 
no  one  better  than  herself. 

"My  table-book  informs  me  that  I  danced  no  less  than  seven-and- 
twenty  sets  with  her  at  the  Assembly.  I  treated  her  to  the  fiddles  twice. 
I  was  admitted  on  several  days  to  her  lodging,  and  received  by  her  with  a 
great  deal  of  distinction,  and,  for  a  time,  was  entirely  her  slave.  It  was 
only  when  I  found,  from  common  talk  of  the  company  at  the  Wells,  and 
from  narrowly  watching  one,  who  I  once  thought  of  asking  the  most  sacred 
question  a  man  can  put  to  a  woman,  that  I  became  aware  how  unfit  she 
was  to  be  a  country  gentleman's  wife  ;  and  that  this  fair  creature  was  but 
a  heartless  worldly  jilt,  playing  with  affections  that  she  never  meant  to  re- 
turn, and,  indeed,  incapable  of  returning  them.  'Tis  admiration  such 
women  want,  not  love  that  touches  them  ;  and  I  can  conceive,  in  her  old 
age,  no  more  wretched  creature  than  this  lady  will  be,  Avhen  her  beauty 
hath  deserted  her,  when  her  admirers  have  left  her,  and  she  hath  neither 
friendship  nor  religion  to  console  her. 

"  Business  caUing  me  to  London,  I  went  to  St.  James's  Church  last  Sun- 
day, and  there  opposite  me  sat  my  beauty  of  the  Wells.  Her  behavior 
during  the  whole  service  was  so  pert,  languishing,  and  absurd ;  she  flirted 
her  fan,  and  ogled  and  eyed  me  in  a  manner  so  indecent,  that  I  was  obliged 
to  shut  my  eyes,  so  as  actually  not  to  see  her,  and  whenever  I  opened  them 
beheld  hers  (and  very  bright  they  are)  still  staring  at  me.  I  fell  in  with 
her  afterwards  at  Court,  and  at  the  playhouse  ;  and  here  nothing  w^ould 
satisfy  her  but  she  must  elbow  through  the  crowd  and  speak  to  me,  and 
invite  me  to  the  assembly,  which  she  holds  at  her  house,  not  very  far  from 
Ch-r-ng  Cr-ss. 

"  Having  made  her  a  promise  to  attend,  of  course  I  kept  my  promise ; 
and  found  the  young  widow  in  the  midst  of  a  half-dozen  of  card  tables,  and 
a  crowd  of  wits  and  admirers.  I  made  the  best  bow  I  could,  and  advanced 
towards  her ;  and  saw  by  a  peculiar  puzzled  look  in  her  face,  though  she 
tried  to  hide  her  perplexity,  that  she  had  forgotten  even  my  name. 

"  Her  talk,  artful  as  it  was,  convinced  me  that  I  had  guessed  aright. 
She  turned  the  conversation  most  ridiculously  upon  the  spelling  of  names 
and  words ;  and  I  replied  with  as  ridiculous  fulsome  compliments  as  I 
could  pay  her :  indeed,  one  in  which  I  compared  her  to  an  angel  visiting 
the  sick  wells,  went  a  little  too  far ;  nor  should  I  have  employed  it,  but 
that  the  allusion  came  from  the  Second  Lesson  last  Sunday,  which  we  both 
had  heard,  and  I  was  pressed  to  answer  her. 

"  Then  she  came  to  the  question,  which  I  knew  was  awaiting  me,  and 
asked  how  I  spelt  my  name  ?  '  Madam,'  says  I,  turning  on  my  heel, '  I  spell 
it  with  a  y.'    And  so  I  left  her,  wondering  at  the  light-heartedness  of  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  309 

town-people,  who  forget  and  make  friends  so  easily,  and  resolved  to  look 
elsewhere  for  a  partner  for  your  constant  reader, 

"  Cymon  Wyldoats." 

"  You  know  ray  real  name,  Mr.  Spectator,  in  which  there  is  no  such 
a  letter  as  hupsUon.  But  if  the  lady,  whom  I  have  called  Saccharissa,  won- 
ders that  I  appear  no  more  at  the  tea-tables,  she  is  hereby  respectfully  in- 
formed the  reason  y." 

The  above  is  a  parable,  whereof  the  writer  will  now  expound 
the  meaning.  Jocasta  was  no  other  than  Miss  Esmond,  Maid 
of  Honor  to  her  Majesty.  She  had  told  Mr.  Esmond  this  little 
stor}'  of  having  met  a  gentleman  somewhere,  and  forgetting 
his  name,  when  the  gentleman,  with  no  such  malicious  inten- 
tions as  those  of  "  Cymon  "  in  the  above  fable,  made  the  answer 
simply  as  above  ;  and  we  all  laughed  to  think  how  little  Mis- 
tress Jocasta-Beatrix  had  profited  by  her  artifice  and  precau- 
tions. 

As  for  Cymon,  he  was  intended  to  represent  j'ours  and  her 
very  humble  servant,  the  writer  of  the  apologue  and  of  this 
story,  which  we  had  printed  on  a  "  Spectator"  paper  at  Mr. 
Steele's  office,  exactly  as  those  famous  journals  were  printed, 
and  which  was  laid  on  the  table  at  breakfast  in  place  of  the 
real  newspaper.  Mistress  Jocasta,  who  had  plenty  of  wit, 
could  not  live  without  her  Spectator  to  her  tea ;  and  this  sham 
Spectator  was  intended  to  convey  to  the  young  woman  that  she 
herself  was  a  flirt,  and  that  C3'mon  was  a  gentleman  of  honor 
and  resolution,  seeing  all  her  faults,  and  determined  to  break 
the  chains  once  and  for  ever. 

For  though  enough  hath  been  said  about  this  love-business 
already  —  enough,  at  least,  to  prove  to  the  writer's  heirs  what 
a  silly  fond  fool  their  old  grandfather  was,  who  would  like 
them  to  consider  him  as  a  ver}^  wise  old  gentleman  ;  yet  not 
near  all  has  been  told  concerning  this  matter,  which,  if  it  were 
allowed  to  take  in  Esmond's  journal  the  space  it  occupied  in 
his  time,  would  weary  his  kinsmen  and  women  of  a  hundred 
years'  time  be3'ond  all  endurance ;  and  form  such  a  diary  of 
foU}^  and  drivelling,  raptures  and  rage,  as  no  man  of  ordinaiy 
vanity  would  like  to  leave  behind  him. 

The  truth  is,  that,  whether  she  laughed  at  him  or  encouraged 
him  ;  whether  she  smiled  or  was  cold,  and  turned  her  smiles  on 
another ;  worldly  and  ambitious,  as  he  knew  her  to  be  ;  hard 
and  careless,  as  she  seemed  to  grow  with  her  court  life,  and 
a  hundred  admirers  that  came  to  her  and  left  her ;  Esmond, 
do  what  he  would,  never  could  get  Beatrix  out  of  his  mind ; 


310  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

thought  of  her  constantly  at  home  or  away.  If  he  read  his 
name  in  a  Gazette,  or  escaped  the  shot  of  a  cannon-ball  or  a 
greater  danger  in  the  campaign,  as  has  happened  to  him  more 
than  once,  the  instant  thought  after  the  honor  achieved  or  the 
danger  avoided,  was,  "  What  will  she  say  of  it?"  "  Will  this 
distinction  or  the  idea  of  this  peril  elate  her  or  touch  her,  so 
as  to  be  better  inchned  towards  me?  "  He  could  no  more  help 
this  passionate  fidelity  of  temper  than  he  could  help  the  eyes 
he  saw  with  —  one  or  the  other  seemed  a  part  of  his  nature ; 
and  knowing  every  one  of  her  faults  as  well  as  the  keenest  of 
her  detractors,  and  the  folly  of  an  attachment  to  such  a  woman, 
of  which  the  fruition  could  never  bring  him  happiness  for  above 
a  weel^,  there  was  yet  a  charm  about  this  Circe  from  which  the 
poor  deluded  gentleman  could  not  free  himself;  and  for  a  much 
longer  period  than  Ulysses  (another  middle-aged  officer,  who 
had  travelled  much,  and  been  in  the  foreign  wars,)  Esmond 
felt  himself  enthralled  and  besotted  by  the  wiles  of  this  en- 
chantress. Quit  her !  He  could  no  more  quit  her,  as  the 
Cymon  of  this  story  was  made  to  quit  his  false  one,  than  he 
could  lose  his  consciousness  of  3'esterday.  She  had  but  to 
raise  her  finger,  and  he  would  come  back  from  ever  so  far; 
she  had  but  to  sa}^  I  have  discarded  such  and  such  an  adorer, 
and  the  poor  infatuated  wretch  would  be  sure  to  come  and  rSder 
about  her  mother's  house,  willing  to  be  put  on  the  ranks  of 
suitors,  though  he  knew  he  might  be  cast  off  the  next  week. 
If  he  were  hke  Ul3'Sses  in  his  foil}',  at  least  she  was  in  so  far 
like  Penelope  that  she  had  a  crowd  of  suitors,  and  undid  day 
after  day  and  night  after  night  the  handiwork  of  fascination 
and  the  web  of  coquetrj?^  with  which  she  was  wont  to  allure  and 
entertain  them. 

Part  of  her  coquetrj'  may  have  come  from  her  position  about 
the  Court,  where  the  beautiful  maid  of  honor  was  the  light 
about  which  a  thousand  beaux  came  and  fluttered ;  where  she 
was  sure  to  have  a  ring  of  admirers  round  her,  crowding  to 
listen  to  her  repartees  as  much  as  to  admire  her  beaut}^ ;  and 
where  she  spoke  and  listened  to  much  free  talk,  such  as  one 
never  would  have  thought  the  lips  or  ears  of  Rachel  Castlcv 
wood's  daughter  would  have  uttered  or  heard.  When  in  wait- 
ing at  Windsor  or  Hampton,  the  Court  ladies  and  gentlemen 
would  be  making  riding  parties  together ;  Mrs.  Beatrix  in  a 
horseman's  coat  and  hat,  the  foremost  after  the  stag-hounds 
and  over  the  park  fences,  a  crowd  of  3'oung  fellows  at  her  heels. 
If  the  English  country  ladies  at  this  time  were  the  most  pure 
and  modest  of  any  ladies  in  the  world  —  the  English  town  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  311 

court  ladies  permitted  themselves  words  and  behavior  that  were 
neither  modest  nor  pure  ;  and  claimed,  some  of  tliem,  a  freedom 
which  those  who  love  that  sex  most  would  never  wish  to  grant 
them.  The  gentlemen  of  my  family  that  follow  after  me  (for 
I  don't  encourage  the  ladies  to  pursue  any  such  studies),  may 
read  in  the  works  of  Mr.  Congreve,  and  Dr.  Swift  and  others, 
what  was  the  conversation  and  what  the  habits  of  our  time. 

The  most  beautiful  woman  in  England  in  1712,  when  Es- 
mond returned  to  this  country,  a  ladj^  of  high  birth,  and  though 
of  no  fortune  to  be  sure,  with  a  thousand  fascinations  of  wit 
and  manners,  Beatrix  Esmond  was  now  six-and-twent}'  ^ears 
old,  and  Beatrix  Esmond  still.  Of  her  hundred  adorers  she 
had  not  chosen  one  for  a  husband  ;  and  those  who  had  asked 
had  been  jilted  b}'  her  ;  and  more  still  had  left  her.  A  succes- 
sion of  near  ten  years'  crops  of  beauties  had  come  up  since  her 
time,  and  had  been  reaped  b}'  proper  husbandmGn,  if  we  may 
make  an  agricultural  simile,  and  had  been  housed  comfortably 
long  ago.  Her  own  contemporaries  were  sober  mothers  by  this 
time  ;  girls  with  not  a  tithe  of  her  charms,  or  her  wit,  having 
made  good  matches,  and  now  claiming  precedence  over  the 
spinster  who  but  lately  had  derided  and  outshone  them.  The 
young  beauties  were  beginning  to  look  down  on  Beatrix  as  an 
old  maid,  and  sneer,  and  call  her  one  of  Charles  II. 's  ladies, 
and  ask  whether  her  portrait  was  not  in  the  Hampton  Court 
Galler}'?  But  still  she  reigned,  at  least  in  one  man's  opinion, 
superior  over  all  the  little,  misses  that  were  the  toasts  of  the 
young  lads  ;  and  in  Esmond's  eyes  was  ever  perfectlj'  lovely 
and  young. 

Who  knows  how  manj^  were  nearty  made  happ}-  by  possess- 
ing her,  or,  rather,  how  many  were  fortunate  in  escaping  this 
siren  ?  'Tis  a  marvel  to  think  that  her  mother  was  the  purest 
and  simplest  woman  in  the  whole  world,  and  that  this  girl 
should  have  been  born  from  her.  I  am  inclined  to  fancy,  m}^ 
mistress,  who  never  said  a  harsh  word  to  her  children  (and  but 
twice  or  thrice  only  to  one  person),  must  have  been  too  fond 
and  pressing  with  the  maternal  authority' ;  for  her  son  and  her 
daughter  both  revolted  early ;  nor  after  their  first  flight  from 
the  nest  could  they  ever  be  brought  back  quite  to  the  fond 
mother's  bosom.  Lad}'  Castlewood,  and  perhaps  it  was  as 
well,  knew  little  of  her  daughter's  life  and  real  thoughts.  How 
was  she  to  apprehend  what  passes  in  Queen's  ante-chambers 
and  at  Court  tables?  Mrs.  Beatrix  asserted  her  own  authorit}'' 
so  resolutel}'  that  her  mother  quickly  gave  in.  The  maid  of 
houor  had  her  own  equipage  ;  went  from  home  and  came  back 


312  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

at  her  own  will :  her  mother  was  alike  powerless  to  resist  hei 
or  to  lead  her,  or  to  command  or  to  persuade  her. 

She  had  been  engaged  once,  twice,  thrice,  to  he  married, 
Esmond  beheved.  When  he  quitted  home,  it  hath  been  said, 
she  was  promised  to  mj-  Lord  Ashburnham,  and  now,  on  his 
return,  behold  his  lordship  was  just  married  to  Lady  Mar}^ 
Butler,  the  Duke  of  Ormonde's  daughter,  and  his  fine  houses, 
and  twelve  thousand  a  3^ear  of  fortune,  for  which  Miss  Beatrix 
had  rather  coveted  him,  was  out  of  her  power.  To  her  Esmond 
could  say  nothing  in  regard  to  the  breaking  of  this  match  ;  and, 
asking  his  mistress  about  it,  all  Lady  Castlewood  answered 
was  :  "do  not  speak  to  me  about  it,  Harr}^  I  cannot  tell  3^011 
how  or  wh}^  they  parted,  and  I  fear  to  inquire.  I  have  told 
you  before,  that  with  all  her  kindness,  and  wit,  and  generosit}^ 
and  that  sort  of  splendor  of  nature  she  has,  I  can  say  but  little 
good  of  poor  Beatrix,  and  look  with  dread  at  the  marriage  she 
will  form.  Her  mind  is  fixed  on  ambition  only,  and  making  a 
great  figure ;  and,  this  achieved,  she  will  tire  of  it  as  she  does 
of  everj'tliing.  Heaven  help  her  husband,  whoever  he  shall 
be  !  My  Lord  Ashburnham  was  a  most  excellent  young  man, 
gentle  and  3'et  manlv,  of  ver}^  good  parts,  so  they  told  me,  and 
as  m}^  little  conversation  would  enable  me  to  judge  :  and  a  kind 
temper  —  kind  and  enduring  I'm  sure  he  must  have  been,  from 
all  that  he  had  to  endure.  But  he  quitted  her  at  last,  from 
some  crowning  piece  of  caprice  or  tj^ranu}^  of  hers  ;  and  now 
he  has  married  a  3^oung  woman  that  will  make  him  a  thousand 
times  happier  than  m3'  poor  girl  ever  could." 

The  rupture,  whatever  its  cause  was,  (I  heard  the  scandal, 
but  indeed  shall  not  take  pains  to  repeat  at  length  in  this  diar3^ 
the  trumpery  coflTee-house  stor3^)  caused  a  good  deal  of  low 
talk  ;  and  Mr.  P^smond  was  present  at  m3'  lord's  appearance  at 
the  Birthda3^  with  his  bride,  over  whom  the  revenge  that  Beatrix 
took  was  to  look  so  imperial  and  lovel3'  that  the  modest  down- 
cast young  lad3^  could  not  appear  beside  her,  and  Lord  Ash- 
burnham, who  had  his  reasons  for  wishing  to  avoid  her,  slunk 
away  quite  shamefaced,  and  very  early.  This  time  his  Grace 
the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  w^hom  Esmond  had  seen  about  her 
before,  was  constant  at  Miss  Beatrix's  side  :  he  was  one  of  the 
most  splendid  gentlemen  of  Europe,  accomplished  b3^  books, 
by  travel,  by  long  command  of  the  best  companv,  distinguished 
as  a  statesman,  having  been  ambassador  in  King  William's 
time,  and  a  noble  speaker  in  the  Scots'  Parliament,  where  he 
had  led  the  party  that  was  against  the  Union,  and  though  now 
five  or  six  and  fort3^  years  of  age,  a  gentleman  so  high  in 


THE   HISTORY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  313 

stature,  accomplished  in  wit,  and  favored  in  person,  that  he 
might  pretend  to  the  hand  of  any  Princess  in  Europe. 

''  Should  3'ou  like  the  Duke 'for  a  cousin?"  sajs  Mr.  Secre- 
tar}' St.  John,  whispering  to  Colonel  Esmond  in  French;  "it 
appears  that  the  widower  consoles  himself." 

But  to  return  to  our  little  Spectator  paper  and  the  conversa- 
tion which  grew  out  of  it.  Miss  Beatrix  at  first  was  quite  bit 
(as  the  phrase  of  that  daj'  was)  and  did  not  "smoke"  the 
authorship  of  the  storj' ;  indeed  Esmond  had  tried  to  imitate 
as  well  as  he  could  Mr.  Steele's  manner  (as  for  the  other  au- 
thor of  the  Spectator^  his  prose  st^ie  I  think  is  altogether  inimi- 
table) ;  and  Dick,  who  was  the  idlest  and  best-natured  of  men, 
would  have  let  the  piece  pass  into  his  journal  and  go  to  pos- 
terity as  one  of  his  own  lucubrations,  but  that  Esmond  did  not 
care  to  have  a  lady's  name  whom  he  loved  sent  forth  to  the 
world  in  a  light  so  unfavorable.  Beatrix  pished  and  psha'd 
over  the  paper  ;  Colonel  Esmond  watching  with  no  little  interest 
her  countenance  as  she  read  it. 

"  How  stupid  3'our  friend  Mr.  Steele  becomes  !  "  cries  Miss 
Beatrix.  "  Epsom  and  Tunbridge  !  Will  he  never  have  done 
with  Epsom  and  Tunbridge,  and  with  beaux  at  church,  and 
Jocastas  and  Lindamiras  ?  Why  does  he  not  call  women  Nelly 
and  Betty,  as  their  godfathers  and  godmothers  did  for  them  in 
their  baptism  ?  " 

"Beatrix,  Beatrix!"  says  her  mother,  "speak  gravely  of 
grave  things." 

"Mamma  thinks  the  Church  Catechism  came  from  heaven, 
I  believe,"  says  Beatrix,  with  a  laugh,  "  and  was  brought  down 
by  a  bishop  from  a  mountain.  Oh,  how  I  used  to  break  my 
heart  over  it !  Besides,  I  had  a  Popish  godmother,  mamma  ; 
why  did  3'ou  give  me  one?" 

"  I  gave  you  the  Queen's  name,"  says  her  mother  blushing. 
"  And  a  very  pretty  name  it  is,"  said  somebody  else. 

Beatrix  went  on  reading — ■  "  Spell  my  name  with  a  y  —  why, 
you  wretch,"  says  she,  turning  round  to  Colonel  Esmond,  "  you 
have  been  telling  mj'  story  to  Mr.  Steele  —  or  stop  —  you  have 
written  the  paper  3^ourself  to  turn  me  into  ridicule.  For  shame, 
sir !  " 

Poor  Mr.  Esmond  felt  rather  frightened,  and  told  a  truth, 
w^hich  was  nevertheless  an  entire  falsehood.  "  Upon  my  honor," 
says  he,  "  I  have  not  even  read  the  Spectator  of  this  morning." 
Nor  had  he,  for  that  was  not  the  Spectator^  but  a  sham  news- 
paper put  in  its  place. 

She  went  on  reading :  her  face  rather  flushed  as  she  read. 


314  THE   HISTORY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

"No,"  she  says,  "I  think  you  couldn't  have  written  it.  I 
think  it  must  have  been  Mr.  Steele  when  he  was  drunk  —  and 
afraid  of  his  horrid  vulgar  wife.  Whenever  I  see  an  enormous 
compliment  to  a  woman,  and  some  outrageous  panegyric  about 
female  virtue,  I  always  feel  sure  that  the  Captain  and  his  better 
half  have  fallen  out  over-night,  and  that  he  has  been  brought 
home  tipsy,  or  has  been  found  out  in  —  " 

"  Beatrix  !  "  cries  the  Lady  Castle  wood. 

"Well,  mamma!  Do  not  cry  out  before  you  are  hurt.  I 
am  not  going  to  say  anything  wrong.  I  won't  give  you  more 
annoyance  than  you  can  help,  you  pretty  kind  mamma.  Yes, 
and  your  little  Trix  is  a  naughty  little  Trix,  and  she  leaves 
undone  those  things  which  she  ought  to  have  done,  and  does 
those  things  which  she  ought  not  to  have  done,  and  there's  — 
well  now— 'I  won't  go  on.  Yes,  I  will,  unless  you  kiss  me." 
And  with  this  the  young  lady  lays  aside  her  paper,  and  runs 
up  to  her  mother  and  performs  a  variety  of  embraces  with  her 
ladyship,  saying  as  plain  as  eyes  could  speak  to  Mr.  Esmond 
—  "There,  sir:  would  not  you  like  to  plaj^  the  very  same 
pleasant  game?" 

"  Indeed,  madam,  I  would,"  says  he. 

"  Would  what?"  asked  Miss  Beatrix. 

"  What  you  meant  when  you  looked  at  me  in  that  provoking 
way,"  answers  Esmond. 

"  What  a  confessor  !  "  cries  Beatrix,  with  a  laugh. 

"  What  is  it  Henry  would  like,  ni}'  dear?"  asks  her  mother, 
the  kind  soul,  who  was  always  thinking  what  we  would  like, 
and  how  she  could  please  us. 

The  girl  runs  up  to  her —  "  Oh,  3'ou  sill}^  kind  mamma,"  she 
sa5^s,  kissing  her  again,  "  that's  what  Harry  would  like  ;  "  and 
she  broke  out  into  a  great  jo^'ful  laugh  ;  and  Lady  Castlewood 
blushed  as  bashful  as  a  maid  of  sixteen. 

"Look  at  her,  Harry,"  whispers  Beatrix,  running  up,  and 
speaking  in  her  sweet  low  tones.  "  Doesn't  the  blush  become 
her?  Isn't  she  pretty?  She  looks  younger  than  I  am,  and  I 
am  sure  she  is  a  hundred  million  thousand  times  better." 

Esmond's  kind  mistress  left  the  room,  carrjdng  her  blushes 
away  with  her. 

"  If  we  girls  at  Court  could  grow  such  roses  as  that,"  con- 
tinues Beatrix,  with  her  laugh,  "what  wouldn't  we  do  to  pre- 
serve 'em?  We'd  clip  their  stalks  and  put  'em  in  salt  and  water. 
But  those  flowers  don't  bloom  at  Hampton  Court  and  Windsor, 
Henry."  She  paused  for  a  minute,  and  the  smile  fading  away 
from  her  April  face,  gave  place  to  a  menacing  shower  of  tears ; 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  315 

''  Oh,  how  good  she  is,  Harry,"  Beatrix  went  on  to  say.  ''  Oh, 
what  a  saint  she  is  !  Her  goodness  frightens  me.  I'm  not  fit 
to  Hve  with  her.  I  should  be  better  I  think  if  she  were  not  so 
perfect.  She  has  had  a  great  sorrow  in  her  life,  and  a  great 
secret ;  and  repented  of  it.  It  could  not  have  been  my  father's 
death.  She  talks  freely  about  that ;  nor  could  she  have  loved 
him  very  much  —  though  who  knows  what  we  women  do  love, 
and  why  ? " 

"  What,  and  why,  indeed,"  says  Mr.  Esmond. 

"No  one  knows,"  Beatrix  went  on,  without  noticing  this 
interruption  except  by  a  look,  "  what  my  mother's  Ufe  is.  She 
hath  been  at  early  prayer  this  morning :  she  passes  hours  in 
her  closet ;  if  3^ou  were  to  follow  her  thither,  you  would  find 
her  at  prayers  now.  She  tends  the  poor  of  the  place  —  the 
horrid  dirty  poor!  She  sits  through  the  curate's  sermons  — 
oh,  those  drear}^  sermons  !  And  3'ou  see  on  a  beau  dire  ;  but 
good  as  they  are,  people  like  her  are  not  fit  to  commune  with 
us  of  the  world.  There  is  always,  as  it  were,  a  third  person 
present,  even  when  I  and  my  mother  are  alone.  She  can't  be 
frank  with  me  quite  ;  who  is  always  thinking  of  the  next  world, 
and  of  her  guardian  angel,  perhaps  that's  in  company.  Oh, 
Harry,  I'm  jealous  of  that  guardian  angel ! "  here  broke  out 
Mistress  Beatrix.  "It's  horrid,  I  know;  but  my  mother's 
life  is  all  for  heaven,  and  mine  —  all  for  earth.  We  can  never 
be  friends  quite  ;  and  then,  she  cares  more  for  Frank's  little 
finger  than  she  does  for  me  —  I  know  she  does  :  and  she  loves 
you,  sir,  a  great  deal  too  much  ;  and  I  hate  3'Ou  for  it.  I  would 
have  had  her  all  to  myself;  but  she  wouldn't.  In  my  child- 
hood, it  was  m}^  father  she  loved —  (oh,  how  could  she?  I  re- 
member him  kind  and  handsome,  but  so  stupid,  and  not  being 
able  to  speak  aifter  drinking  wine).  And  then  it  was  Frank  ; 
and  now,  it  is  heaven  and  the  clergyman.  How  I  would  have 
loved  her !  From  a  child  I  used  to  be  in  a  rage  that  she  loved 
an^'body  but  me  ;  but  she  loved  3"ou  all  better  —  all,  I  know 
she  did.  And  now,  she  talks  of  the  blessed  consolation  of 
rehgion.  Dear  soul !  she  thinks  she  is  happier  for  believing, 
as  she  must,  that  we  are  all  of  us  wicked  and  miserable  sin- 
ners ;  and  this  world  is  onl}-  a  pied-a-terre  for  the  good,  where 
they  stay  for  a  night,  as  we  do,  coming  from  Walcote,  at  that 
great,  dreary,  uncomfortable  Hounslow  Inn,  in  those  horrid 
beds  —  oh,  do  you  remember  those  horrid  beds?  —  and  the 
chariot  comes  and  fetches  them  to  heaven  the  next  morning." 

"  Hush,  Beatrix,"  says  Mr.  Esmond. 

"Hush,  indeed.     You  are  a  hypocrite,  too,  Henr}^  with 


316  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

your  grave  airs  and  jour  glum  face.  We  are  all  hj'pocrites. 
O  dear  me!  We  are  all  alone,  alone,  alone,"  saj's  poor  Bea- 
trix, her  fair  breast  heaving  with  a  sigh. 

"  It  was  I  that  writ  ever}'  line  of  that  paper,  m}'  dear,"  saj'S 
Mr.  Esmond.  "  You  are  not  so  worldh^  as  you  think  yourself, 
Beatrix,  and  better  than  we  believe  you.  The  good  we  have 
in  us  we  doubt  of;  and  the  happiness  that's  to  our  hand  we 
throw  away.  You  bend  your  ambition  on  a  great  marriage 
and  establishment  —  and  whj'  ?  You'll  tire  of  them  when  you 
win  them  ;  and  be  no  happier  with  a  coronet  on  your  coach  —  " 

''  Than  riding  pillion  with  Lubin  to  market,"  saj^s  Beatrix. 
''Thank  you,  Lubin!" 

"  I'm  a  dismal  shepherd,  to  be  sure,"  answers  Esmond,  with 
a  blush  ;  "  and  require  a  nymph  that  can  tuck  ni}^  bed-clothes 
up,  and  make  me  water-gruel.  Well,  Tom  Lockwood  can  do 
that.  He  took  me  o'lt  of  the  fire  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
nursed  me  through  m}-  illness  as  love  will  scarce  ever  do. 
Onl}'  good  wages,  and  a  hope  of  my  clothes,  and  the  contents 
of  ni}'  portmanteau.  How  long  was  it  that  Jacob  served  an 
apprenticeship  for  Rachel?" 

"  For  mamma?"  sajs  Beatrix.  "  It  is  mamma  your  honor 
wants,  and  that  I  should  have  the  happiness  of  calling  you 
papa?" 

Esmond  blushed  again.  "  I  spoke  of  a  Rachel  that  a  shep- 
herd courted  five  thousand  years  ago ;  when  shepherds  were 
longer  lived  than  now.  And  my  meaning  was,  that  since  I  saw 
you  first  after  our  separation  —  a  child  you  were  then  ..." 

"  And  I  put  on  my  best  stockings  to  captivate  a^ou,  I  re- 
member, sir  .   .   .  " 

"  Y^ou  have  had  my  heart  ever  since  then,  such  as  it  was  ; 
and  such  as  you  were,  I  cared  for  no  other  woman.  What 
little  reputation  I  have  won,  it  was  that  you  might  be  pleased 
with  it :  and  indeed,  it  is  not  much ;  and  I  think  a  hundred 
fools  in  the  army  have  got  and  deserved  quite  as  much.  Was 
there  something  in  the  air  of  that  dismal  old  Castlewood  that 
made  us  all  gloom}',  and  dissatisfied,  and  lonely  under  its  ruined 
old  roof?  We  were  all  so,  even  when  together  and  united,  as 
it  seemed,  following  our  separate  schemes,  each  as  we  sat 
round  the  table." 

"  Dear,  dreary  old  place  !  "  cries  Beatrix.  "  Mamma  hath 
never  had  the  heart  to  go  back  thither  since  we  left  it,  when  — 
never  mind  how  many  years  ago."  And  she  flung  back  her 
curls,  and  looked  over  her  fair  shoulder  at  the  mirror  superbly, 
as  if  she  said,  "  Time,  I  defy  you." 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  317 

''Yes,"  sa3's  Esmond,  who  had  the  art,  as  she  owned,  of 
divining  many  of  her  thoughts.  "  You  can  afford  to  look  in 
the  glass  still ;  and  only  be  pleased  by  the  truth  it  tells  you. 
As  for  me,  do  you  know  what  mj'  scheme  is?  I  think  of  ask- 
ing Frank  to  give  me  the  Virginian  estate  King  Charles  gave 
our  grandfather.  (She  gave  a  superb  curts}',  as  much  as  to 
say,  '  Our  grandfather,  indeed !  Thank  you,  Mr.  Bastard.') 
Yes,  I  know  you  are  thinking  of  m}^  bar-sinister,  and  so  am  I. 
A  man  cannot  get  over  it  in  this  countr}^ ;  unless,  indeed,  he 
wears  it  across  a  king's  arms,  when  'tis  a  highl}'  honorable  coat ; 
and  I  am  thinking  of  retiring  into  the  plantations,  and  building 
myself  a  wigwam  in  the  woods,  and  perhaps,  if  I  want  com- 
pany, suiting  m\'self  with  a  squaw.  We  will  send  your  lady- 
ship furs  over  for  the  winter ;  and,  when  you  are  old,  we'll 
provide  you  with  tobacco.  I  am  not  quite  clever  enough,  or 
nQt  rogue  enough  —  1  know  not  which  —  for  the  Old  World. 
I  may  make  a  place  for  m3'self  in  the  New,  which  is  not  so 
full ;  and  found  a  family-  there.  When  you  are  a  mother  3  our- 
self,  and  a  great  lad}',  perhaps  I  shall  send  you  over  from  the 
plantation  some  day  a  little  barbarian  that  is  half  Esmond  half 
Mohock,  and  3'ou  will  be  kind  to  him  for  his  father's  sake,  who 
was,  after  all,  3-our  kinsman  ;  and  whom  you  loved  a  little." 

''  What  folly  you  are  talking,  Harry,"  says  Miss  Beatrix, 
looking  with  her  great  eyes. 

"  'Tis  sober  earnest,"  says  Esmond.  And,  indeed,  the 
scheme  had  been  dwelling  a  good  deal  in  his  mind  for  some 
time  past,  and  especiall}'  since  his  return  home,  when  he  found 
how  hopeless,  and  even  degrading  to  himself,  his  passion  was. 
"  No,"  says  he,  then :  "I  have  tried  half  a  dozen  times  now. 
I  can  bear  being  away  from  you  well  enough ;  but  being  with 
3^ou  is  intolerable  "  (another  low  curtsy  on  Mistress  Beatrix's 
part),  "and  I  will  go.  I  have  enough  to  buy  axes  and  guns 
for  my  men,  and  beads  and  blankets  for  the  savages  ;  and  I'll 
go  and  live  amongst  them." 

^^  Mon  ami,''  she  says  quite  kindly,  and  taking  Esmond's 
hand,  with  an  air  of  great  compassion,  "you  can't  think  that 
in  our  position  anything  more  than  our  present  friendship  is 
possible.  You  are  our  elder  brother  —  as  such  w^e  view  you, 
pitying  your  misfortune,  not  rebuking  you  with  it.  Why,  you 
are  old  enough  and  grave  enough  to  be  our  father.  I  always 
thought  3^ou  a  hundred  years  old,  Harry,  with  your  solemn  face 
and  grave  air.  I  feel  as  a  sister  to  you,  and  can  no  more. 
Isn't  that  enough,  sir?"  And  she  put  her  face  quite  close  to 
his  —  who  knows  with  what  intention  ? 


318  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND. 

*'Tt's  too  much,"  says  Esmond,  turning  away.  "I  can't 
bear  this  life,  and  shall  leave  it.  I  shall  sta}',  I  think,  to  see 
you  married,  and  then  freight  a  ship,  and  call  it  the  '  Beatrix,' 
and  bid  you  all  .  .  . " 

Here  the  servant,  flinging  the  door  open,  announced  his 
Grace  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  and  Esmond  started  back  with 
something  hke  an  imprecation  on  his  lips,  as  the  nobleman  en- 
tered, looking  splendid  in  his  star  and  green  ribbon.  He  gave 
Mr.  Esmond  just  that  gracious  bow  which  he  would  have  given 
to  a  lackey  who  fetched  him  a  chair  or  took  his  hat,  and  seated 
himself  by  Miss  Beatrix,  as  the  poor  Colonel  went  out  of  the 
room  with  a  hang-dog  look. 

Esmond's  mistress  was  in  the  lower  room  as  he  passed  down 
stairs.  She  often  met  him  as  he  was  coming  away  from  Bea- 
trix ;  and  she  beckoned  him  into  the  apartment. 

''  Has  she  told  you,  Harry?  "  Lady  Castle  wood  said. 

"  She  has  been  very  frank  —  very,"  says  Esmond. 

*'  But  —  but  about  what  is  going  to  happen?" 

"  What  is  going  to  happen?  "  says  he,  his  heart  beating. 

*'  His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Hamilton  has  proposed  to  her," 
says  m}^  lady.  "He  made  his  offer  yesterday.  They  will 
marry  as  soon  as  his  mourning  is  over ;  and  you  have  heard 
his  Grace  is  appointed  Ambassador  to  Paris  ;  and  the  Ambas- 
sadress goes  with  him." 


CHAPTER  ly. 

Beatrix's  new  suitor. 

The  gentleman  whom  Beatrix  had  selected  was,  to  be  sure, 
twenty  years  older  than  the  Colonel,  with  whom  she  quarrelled 
for  being  too  old  ;  but  this  one  was  but  a  nameless  adventurer, 
and  the  other  the  greatest  duke  in  Scotland,  with  pretensions 
even  to  a  still  higher  title.  My  Lord  Duke  of  Hamilton  had, 
Indeed,  every  merit  belonging  to  a  gentleman,  and  he  had  had 
the  time  to  mature  his  accomplishments  fullj',  being  upwards  of 
fifty  3"ears  old  when  Madam  Beatrix  selected  him  for  a  bride- 
groom. Duke  Hamilton,  then  Earl  of  Arran,  had  been  edu- 
cated at  the  famous  Scottish  universitj'  of  Glasgow,  and,  coming 
to  London,  became  a  great  favorite  of  Charles  the  Second,  who 
made  him  a  lord  of  his  bedchamber,  and  afterwards  appointed 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  319 

him  ambassador  to  tlie  French  king,  under  whom  the  Earl 
served  two  campaigns  as  his  Majesty's  aide-de-camp  ;  and  he 
was  absent  on  this  service  wlien  King  Charles  died. 

King  James  continued  m}'  lord's  promotion  —  made  him 
Master  of  the  Wardrobe  and  Colonel  of  the  Royal  Regiment  of 
Horse  ;  and  his  lordship  adhered  firml}^  to  King  James,  being 
of  the  small  company  that  never  quitted  that  unfortunate  mon- 
arch till  his  departure  out  of  England ;  and  then  it  was,  in 
1688  namel}',  that  he  made  the  friendship  with  Colonel  Francis 
Esmond,  that  had  always  been,  more  or  less,  maintained  in  the 
two  families. 

The  Earl  professed  a  great  admiration  for  King  William 
alwa3's,  but  never  could  give  him  his  allegiance  ;  and  was  en- 
gaged in  more  than  one  of  the  plots  in  the  late  great  King's 
reign  which  alwaj's  ended  in  the  plotters'  discomfiture,  and 
generally  in  their  pardon,  by  the  magnanimity  of  the  King. 
Lord  Arran  was  twice  prisoner  in  the  Tower  during  this  reign, 
undauntedlv  sa3'ing,  when  offered  his  release,  upon  parole  not 
to  engage  against  King  William,  that  he  would  not  give  his 
word,  because  "  he  was  sure  he  could  not  keep  it ; "  but,  never- 
theless, he  was  both  times  discharged  without  any  trial ;  and 
the  King  bore  this  noble  enemy  so  little  malice,  that  when  his 
mother,  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton,  of  her  own  right,  resigned 
her  claim  on  her  husband's  death,  the  Earl  was,  by  patent 
signed  at  Loo,  1690,  created  Duke  of  Hamilton,  Marquis  of 
Clydesdale,  and  Earl  of  Arran,  with  precedency  from  the  origi- 
nal creation.  His  Grace  took  the  oaths  and  his  seat  in  the 
Scottish  parliament  in  1700  :  was  famous  there  for  his  patriot- 
ism and  eloquence,  especially  in  the  debates  about  the  Union 
Bill,  which  Duke  Hamilton  opposed  with  all  his  strength, 
though  he  would  not  go  the  length  of  the  Scottish  gentrj^,  who 
were  for  resisting  it  b}'  force  of  arms.  'Twas  said  he  withdrew 
his  opposition  all  of  a  sudden,  and  in  consequence  of  letters 
from  the  King  at  St.  Germains,  who  entreated  him  on  his  alle- 
giance not  to  thwart  the  Queen  his  sister  in  this  measure  ;  and 
the  Duke,  being  alwa3's  bent  upon  effecting  the  King's  return 
to  his  kingdom  through  a  reconciliation  between  his  Majest}^ 
and  Queen  Anne,  and  quite  averse  to  his  landing  with  arms 
and  French  troops,  held  aloof,  and  kept  out  of  Scotland  during 
the  time  when  the  Chevalier  de  St.  George's  descent  from  Dun- 
kirk was  projected,  passing  his  time  in  England  in  his  great 
estate  in  Staffordshire. 

When  the  Whigs  went  out  of  office  in  1710,  the  Queen  began 
to  show  his  Grace  the  very  greatest  marks  of  her  favor.     He 


320  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

was  created  Duke  of  Brandon  and  Baron  of  Button  in  England  ; 
having  the  Thistle  already  originally  bestowed  on  him  by  King 
James  the  Second,  his  Grace  was  now  promoted  to  the  honor 
of  the  Garter — a  distinction  so  great  and  illustrious,  that  no 
subject  hath  ever  borne  them  hitherto  together.  When  this 
objection  was  made  to  her  Majesty,  she  was  pleased  to  say, 
"  Such  a  subject  as  the  Duke  of  Hamilton  has  a  pre-eminent 
claim  to  every  mark  of  distinction  which  a  crowned  head  can 
confer.     I  will  henceforth  wear  both  orders  m3'self." 

At  the  Chapter  held  at  Windsor  in  October,  1712,  the  Duke 
and  other  knights,  including  Lord-Treasurer,  the  new-created 
Earl  of  Oxford  and  Mortimer,  were  installed ;  and  a  few  days 
afterwards  his  Grace  was  appointed  Ambassador-Extraordinary 
to  France,  and  his  equipages,  plate,  and  liveries  commanded, 
of  the  most  sumptuous  kind,  not  only  for  his  Excellency  the 
Ambassador,  but  for  her  Excellency  the  Ambassadress,  who 
was  to  accompany  him.  Her  arms  were  already  quartered  on 
the  coach  panels,  and  her  brother  was  to  hasten  over  on  the 
appointed  da}'  to  give  her  away. 

His  lordship  was  a  widower,  having  married,  in  1698,  Eliza- 
beth, daughter  of  Digby  Lord  Gerard,  by  which  marriage  great 
estates  came  into  the  Hamilton  familj- ;  and  out  of  these  es- 
tates came,  in  part,  that  tragic  quarrel  which  ended  the  Duke's 
career. 

From  the  loss  of  a  tooth  to  that  of  a  mistress  there's  no 
pang  that  is  not  bearable.  The  apprehension  is  much  more 
cruel  than  the  certainty ;  and  we  make  up  our  mind  to  the  mis- 
fortune when  'tis  irremediable,  part  with  the  tormentor,  and 
mumble  our  crust  on  t'other  side  of  the  jaws.  I  think  Colonel 
Esmond  was  relieved  when  a  ducal  coach  and  six  came  and 
whisked  his  charmer  away  out  of  his  reach,  and  placed  her  in  a 
higher  sphere.  As  you  have  seen  the  nj^mph  in  the  opera- 
machine  go  up  to  the  clouds  at  the  end  of  the  piece  where 
Mars,  Bacchus,  Apollo,  and  all  the  divine  company  of  Olym- 
pians are  seated,  and  quaver  out  her  last  song  as  a  goddess : 
so  when  this  portentous  elevation  was  accomplished  in  the 
Esmond  famil}-,  I  am  not  sure  that  every  one  of  us  did  not 
treat  the  divine  Beatrix  with  special  honors  ;  at  least  the  saucy 
little  beauty  carried  her  head  with  a  toss  of  supreme  authority, 
and  assumed  a  touch-me-not  air,  which  all  her  friends  very 
good-humoredly  bowed  to. 

An  old  arm}^  acquaintance  of  Colonel  Esmond's,  honest  Tom 
Trett,  who  had  sold  his  company,  married  a  wife,  and  turned 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  321 

merchant  in  the  city,  was  dreadfully  gloomy  for  a  long  time, 
though  Hving  in  a  fine  house  on  the  river,  and  carrying  on  a 
great  trade  to  all  appearance.  At  length  Esmond  saw  his 
friend's  name  in  the  Gazette  as  a  bankrupt ;  and  a  week  after 
this  circumstance  my  bankrupt  walks  into  Mr.  Esmond's  lodg- 
ing with  a  face  perfectly  radiant  with  good-humor,  and  as  jolly 
and  careless  as  when  they  had  sailed  from  Southampton  ten 
years  before  for  Vigo.  "This  bankruptcy,"  says  Tom,  "has 
been  hanging  over  my  head  these  three  years ;  the  thought 
hath  prevented  m}'  sleeping,  and  I  have  looked  at  poor  Polly's 
head  on  t'other  pillow,  and  then  towards  my  razor  on  the  table, 
and  thought  to  put  an  end  to  myself,  and  so  give  my  woes  the 
sUp.  But  now  we  are  bankrupts :  Tom  Trett  pays  as  many 
shillings  in  the  pound  as  he  can ;  his  wife  has  a  little  cottage 
at  Fulham,  and  her  fortune  secured  to  herself.  I  am  afraid 
neither  of  bailiff  nor  of  creditor :  and  for  tlie  last  six  nights 
have  slept  easy."  So  it  was  that  when  Fortune  shook  her 
wings  and  left  him,  honest  Tom  cuddled  himself  up  in  his 
ragged  virtue,  and  fell  asleep. 

Esmond  did  not  tell  his  friend  how  much  his  story  applied 
to  Esmond  too  ;  but  he  laughed  at  it,  and  used  it ;  and  having 
fairly  struck  his  docket  in  this  love  transaction,  determined  to 
put  a  cheerful  face  on  his  bankruptc}'.  Perhaps  Beatrix  was  a 
little  offended  at  his  gayet}'.  "  Is  this  the  wa3%  sir,  that  you 
receive  the  announcement  of  j^our  misfortune,"  says  she,  "  and 
do  you  come  smiling  before  me  as  if  you  were  glad  to  be  rid 
of  me?" 

Esmond  would  not  be  put  off  from  his  good-humor,  but 
told  her  the  stor^^  of  Tom  Trett  and  his  bankruptcy.  "  I  have 
been  hankering  after  the  grapes  on  the  wall,"  sa^^s  he,  "  and 
lost  my  temper  because  they  were  beyond  m}'  reach ;  was  there 
any  wonder?  They're  gone  now,  and  another  has  them  —  a 
taller  man  than  your  humble  servant  has  won  them."  And 
the  Colonel  made  his  cousin  a  low  bow. 

"  A  taller  man,  Cousin  Esmond  !  "  says  she.  "  A  man  of 
spirit  would  have  scaled  the  wall,  sir,  and  seized  them !  A 
man  of  courage  would  have  fought  for  'em,  not  gaped  for  'em." 

"  A  Duke  has  but  to  gape  and  they  drop  into  his  mouth," 
says  Esmond,  with  another  low  bow. 

"  Y^es,  sir,"  says  she,  "  a  Duke  u  a  taller  man  than  3'ou. 
And  why  should  I  not  be  grateful  to  one  such  as  his  Grace, 
who  gives  me  his  heart  and  his  great  name  ?  It  is  a  great 
gift  he  honors  me  with  ;  I  know  'tis  a  bargain  between  us  ;  and 
1  accept  it,  and  will  do  my  utmost  to  perform  my  part  of  it. 

21 


322  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

'Tis  no  question  of  sighing  and  philandering  between  a  noble- 
man of  his  Grace's  age  and  a  girl  who  hath  little  of  that 
softness  in  her  nature.  Why  should  I  not  own  that  I  am  am- 
bitious, Harr^^  Esmond  ;  and  if  it  be  no  sin  in  a  man  to  covet 
honor,  why  should  a  woman  too  not  desire  it?  Shall  I  be 
frank  with  you,  Harry,  and  say  that  if  you  had  not  been  down 
on  your  knees,  and  so  humble,  you  might  have  fared  better 
with  me  ?  A  woman  of  mj^  spirit,  cousin,  is  to  be  won  by  gal- 
lantrj',  and  not  by  sighs  and  rueful  faces.  All  the  time  3'ou 
are  worshipping  and  singing  hymns  to  me,  I  know  ver^^  well  I 
am  no  goddess,  and  grow  weary  of  the  incense.  80  would 
you  have  been  weary  of  the  goddess  too  —  when  she  was  called 
Mrs.  Esmond,  and  got  out  of  humor  because  she  had  not  pin- 
money  enough,  and  was  forced  to  go  about  in  an  old  gown. 
Eh  !  cousin,  a  goddess  in  a  mob-cap,  that  has  to  make  her  hus- 
band's gruel,  ceases  to  be  divine  —  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  should 
have  been  sulky  and  scolded ;  and  of  all  the  proud  wretches 
in  the  world  Mr.  Esmond  is  the  proudest,  let  me  tell  him 
that.  You  never  fall  into  a  passion  ;  but  you  never  forgive,  I 
think.  Had  you  been  a  great  man,  you  might  have  been 
good-humored ;  but  being  nobody,  sir,  3^ou  are  too  great  a 
man  for  me;  and  I'm  afraid  of  you,  cousin  —  there!  and  I 
won't  worship  you,  and  ^^ou'll  never  be  happ}-  except  with  a 
woman  who  will.  Why,  after  I  belonged  to  you,  and  after 
one  of  my  tantrums,  you  would  liave  put  tha  pillow  over  my 
head  some  night,  and  smothered  me,  as  the  black  man  does 
the  woman  in  the  play  that  3'ou're  so  fond  of.  What's  the 
creature's  name?  —  Desdemoua.  You  would,  you  little  black- 
dyed  Othello  I " 

*•'  I  think  I  should,  Beatrix,"  sa3^s  the  Colonel. 

"  And  I  want  no  such  ending.  I  intend  to  live  to  be  a 
hundred,  and  to  go  to  ten  thousand  routs  and  balls,  and  to 
play  cards  ever3^  night  of  m3^  life  till  the  3'ear  eighteen  hun- 
dred. And  I  like  to  be  the  first  of  m3'  compan3',  sir ;  and 
I  like  flatter3'  and  compliments,  and  you  give  me  none ;  and 
I  like  to  be  made  to  laugh,  sir,  and  who's  to  laugh  at  your 
dismal  face,  I  should  like  to  know?  and  I  like  a  coach-and 
six  or  a  coach-and-eight ;  and  I  like  diamonds,  and  a  new 
gown  every  week ;  and  people  to  sa3^ — 'That's  the  Dn  chess 
• — How  well  her  Grace  looks  —  Make  way  for  Madame  I'Am- 
bassadrice  d'Angleterre  —  Call  her  Excellenc3''s  people ' —  that's 
what  I  like.  And  as  for  3^ou,  3"0U  want  a  woman  to  bring 
3^our  slippers  and  cap,  and  to  sit  at  3^our  feet,  and  cry,  '  O 
caro  !  O  bravo  ! '  whilst  you  read  your  Shakespeares  and  Mil- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  323 

tons  and  stuff.  Mamma  would  have  been  the  wife  for  you, 
had  you  been  a  little  older,  though  3-ou  look  ten  years  older 
than  she  does  —  3'ou  do,  you  glum-faced,  blue-bearded  little 
old  man  !  You  might  have  sat,  like  Darby  and  Joan,  and 
flattered  each  olher ;  and  billed  and  cooed  like  a  pair  of  old 
pigeons  on  a  perch.  I  want  my  wings  and  to  use  them, 
sir."  And  she  spread  out  her  beautiful  arms,  as  if  indeed 
she  could  fly  off*  like  the  pretty  "  Gawrie,"  whom  the  man  in 
the  storj^  was  enamored  of. 

"And  what  will  your  Peter  Wilkins  sa}'  to  3-our  flight?" 
says  Esmond,  who  never  admired  this  fair  creature  more  than 
when  she  rebelled  and  laughed  at  him. 

"  A  duchess  knows  her  place,"  says  she,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Wh}',  I  have  a  son  alread}^  made  for  me,  and  thirty  years  old 
(my  Lord  Arran) ,  and  four  daughters.  How  they  will  scold, 
and  what  a  rage  they  will  be  in,  when  I  come  to  take  the  head 
of  the  table  !  But  I  give  them  onl}'  a  month  to  be  angry  ;  at 
the  end  of  that  time  they  shall  love  me  every  one,  and  so  shall 
Lord  Arran,  and  so  shall  all  his  Grace's  Scots  vassals  and  fol- 
lowers in  the  Highlands.  I'm  bent  on  it ;  and  when  I  take  a 
thing  in  my  head,  'tis  done.  His  Grace  is  the  greatest  gen- 
tleman in  Europe,  and  111  tr}'  and  make  him  happ}' ;  and, 
when  the  King  comes  back,  you  may  count  on  my  protection, 
Cousin  Esmond  —  for  come  back  the  King  will  and  shall ; 
and  I'll  bring  him  back  from  Versailles,  if  he  comes  under  my 
hoop." 

"  I  hope  the  world  will  make  you  happy,  Beatrix,"  sa3's  Es- 
mond, with  a  sigh.  "*  Y'ou'll  be  Beatrix  till  3'ou  are  mj'  Lady 
Duchess  —  will  3'ou  not?  I  shall  then  make  ^our  Grace  my 
very  lowest  bow." 

*'  None  of  these  sighs  and  this  satire,  cousin,"  she  sa^'s.  *'  I 
take  his  Grace's  great  bonnt}'  thankfuUj'  — yes,  thankfully  ;  and 
will  wear  his  honors  becomingly.  I  do  not  say  he  hath  touched 
my  heart;  but  he  has  my  gratitude,  obedience,  admiration  —  I 
have  told  him  that,  and  no  more  ;  and  with  that  his  noble  heart 
is  content.  I  have  told  him  all  —  even  the  story  of  that  poor 
creature  that  I  was  engaged  to  —  and  that  I  could  not  love ; 
and  I  gladl}'  gave  his  word  back  to  him,  and  jumped  for  joy  to 
get  back  my  own.     I  am  twent^'-five  years  old." 

"  Twenty-six,  my  dear,"  says  Esmond. 

*'  Twenty-five,  sir  —  I  choose  to  be  twent3^-five  ;  and  in  eight 
years  no  man  hath  ever  touched  my  heart.  Yes  — you  did 
once,  for  a  little,  Harr3^,  when  you  came  back  after  Lille,  and 
engaging  with  that  murderer  Mohun,  and  saving  Frank's  life. 


324  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOK^D. 

I  thought  I  could  like  3'ou  ;  and  mamma  begged  me  hard,  on 
her  knees,  and  I  did  —  for  a  day.  But  the  old  chill  came  over 
me,  Henry,  and  the  old  fear  of  you  and  your  melancholy  ;  and 
1  was  glafl  when  you  went  away,  and  engaged  with  my  Lord 
Ashburnham,  that  I  might  hear  no  more  of  you,  that's  the 
truth.  You  are  too  good  for  me,  somehow.  I  could  not  make 
you  happy,  and  should  break  my  heart  in  trying,  and  not  being 
able  to  love  you.  But  if  3'ou  had  asked  me  when  we  gave  3'ou 
the  sword,  you  might  have  had  me,  sir,  and  we  both  should 
have  been  miserable  by  this  time.  I  talked  with  that  silly  lord 
all  night  just  to  vex  you  and  mamma,  and  I  succeeded,  didn't 
I  ?  How  frankly  we  can  talk  of  these  things !  It  seems  a 
thousand  years  ago :  and,  though  we  are  here  sitting  in  the 
same  room,  there  is  a  great  wall  between  us.  My  dear,  kind, 
faithful,  gloomy  old  cousin  !  I  can  like  now,  and  admire  you 
too,  sir,  and  say  that  you  are  brave,  and  verj'  kind,  and  very 
true,  and  a  fine  gentleman  for  all  —  for  all  3'our  little  mishap  at 
your  birth,"  says  she,  wagging  her  arch  head. 

''And  now,  sir,"  says  she,  with  a  curtsy,  "we  must  have 
no  more  talk  except  when  mamma  is  by,  as  his  Grace  is  with 
us  ;  for  he  does  not  half  like  you,  cousin,  and  is  jealous  as  the 
black  man  in  your  favorite  play." 

Though  the  very  kindness  of  the  words  stabbed  Mr.  Es- 
mond with  the  keenest  pang,  he  did  not  show  his  sense  of  the 
wound  1)3'  any  look  of  his  (as  Beatrix,  indeed,  afterwards  owned 
to  him),  but  said,  with  a  perfect  command  of  himself  and  an 
eas3"  smile,  "  The  interview  must  not  end  3'et,  my  dear,  until  I 
have  had  m3^  last  word.  Sta3^  here  comes  3'our  mother"  (in- 
deed she  came  in  here  with  her  sweet  anxious  face,  and  Esmond 
going  up  kissed  her  hand  respectfull3') .  "  M3'  dear  lad3'  may 
hear,  too,  the  last  words,  which  are  no  secrets,  and  are  onl3'  a 
parting  benediction  accompanying  a  present  for  your  marriage 
from  an  old  gentleman  3'our  guardian  ;  for  I  feel  as  if  I  was  the 
guardian  of  all  the  family,  and  an  old  old  fellow  that  is  fit  to  be 
the  grandfather  of  you  all ;  and  in  this  character  let  me  make  my 
Lady  Duchess  her  wedding  present.  The3'  are  the  diamonds 
m3^  father's  widow  left  me.  I  had  thought  Beatrix  might  have 
had  them  a  year  ago  ;  but  the3^  are  good  enough  for  a  duchess, 
though  not  bright  enough  for  the  handsomest  woman  in  the 
world."  And  he  took  the  case  out  of  his  pocket  in  which  the 
jewels  were,  and  presented  them  to  his  cousin. 

She  gave  a  cry  of  delight,  for  the  stones  were  indeed  very 
handsome,  and  of  great  value  ;  and  the  next  minute  the  neck- 
lace was  where  Belinda's  cross  is  in  Mr.  Pope's  admirable  poem, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  325 

and  glittering  on  the  whitest  and  most  perfectly-shaped  neck 
in  all  England. 

The  girl's  delight  at  receiving  these  trinkets  was  so  great, 
that  after  rushing  to  the  looking-glass  and  examining  the  effect 
they  produced  upon  that  fair  neck  which  they  surrounded, 
Beatrix  was  running  back  with  her  arms  extended,  and  was 
perhaps  for  paying  her  cousin  with  a  price,  that  he  would  have 
liked  no  doubt  to  receive  from  those  beautiful  rosy  lips  of  hers, 
but  at  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  his  Grace  the  bride- 
groom elect  was  announced. 

He  looked  ver}^  black  upon  Mr.  Esmond,  to  whom  he  made 
a  very  low  bow  indeed,  and  kissed  the  hand  of  each  lady  in  his 
most  ceremonious  manner.  He  had  come  in  his  chair  from  the 
palace  hard  bj',  and  wore  his  two  stars  of  the  Garter  and  the 
Thistle. 

"Look,  my  Lord  Duke,"  says  Mistress  Beatrix,  advancing 
to  him,  and  showing  the  diamonds  on  her  breast. 

"  Diamonds,"  ssijs  his  Grace.     "  Hm  !  thej'  seem  prett}'." 

"  The}'  are  a  present  on  my  marriage,"  says  Beatrix. 

"  From  her  Majesty  ?  "  asks  the  Duke.  "  The  Queen  is  very 
good." 

"From  my  cousin  Henry  —  from  our  cousin  Henry"  —  cry 
both  the  ladies  in  a  breath. 

"  I  have  not  the  honor  of  knowing  the  gentleman.  1  thought 
that  my  Lord  Castlewood  had  no  brother :  and  that  on  your 
ladyship's  side  there  were  no  nephews." 

"From  our  cousin.  Colonel  Henry  Esmond,  my  lord,"  sa3'S 
Beatrix,  taking  the  Colonel's  hand  very  bravelj',  —  "who  was 
left  guardian  to  us  by  our  father,  and  who  has  a  hundred  times 
shown  his  love  and  friendship  for  our  family." 

"The  DuchesS  of  Hamilton  receives  no  diamonds  but  from 
her  husband,  madam,"  says  the  Duke  —  "may  I  pray  j^ou  to 
restore  these  to  Mr.  Esmond  ?  " 

"Beatrix  Esmond  may  receive  a  present  from  our  kinsman 
and  benefactor,  m}-  Lord  Duke,"  sa^'s  Lady  Castlewood,  with 
an  air  of  great  dignity.  "  She  is  my  daughter  yet :  and  if  her 
mother  sanctions  the  gift  —  no  one  else  hath  the  right  to  ques- 
tion it." 

"  Kinsman  and  benefactor  !  "  sa3's  the  Duke.  "  I  know  of 
no  kinsman  :  and  I  do  not  choose  that  my  wife  should  have  for 
benefactor  a  —  " 

"  My  lord  !  "  says  Colonel  Esmond. 

"I  am  not  here  to  band}^  words,"  says  his  Grace  :  "  frankly 
I  tell  you  that  your  visits  to  this  house  are  too  frequent,  and 


326  THE   HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND. 

that  I  choose  no  presents  for  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton  from 
gentlemen  that  bear  a  name  the^^  have  no  right  to." 

''My  lord!"  breaks  out  Lady  Castle  wood,  "Mr.  Esmond 
hath  the  best  right  to  that  name  of  any  man  in  the  world  :  and 
'tis  as  old  and  as  honorable  as  your  Grace's." 

My  Lord  Duke  smiled,  and  looked  as  if  Lady  Castlewood 
was  mad,  that  was  so  talking  to  him. 

"  If  I  called  him  benefactor,"  said  m}'  mistress,  "  it  is 
because  he  has  been  so  to  us  —  yes,  the  noblest,  the  truest,  the 
bravest,  the  dearest  of  benefactors.  He  would  have  saved  my 
husband's  life  from  Mohun's  sword.  He  did  save  my  boy's, 
and  defended  him  from  that  villain.  Are  those  no  bene- 
fits?" 

"I  ask  Colonel  Esmond's  pardon,"  says  his  Grace,  if  pos- 
sible more  haughty  than  before.  "  I  would  sa}'  not  a  word  that 
should  give  him  offence,  and  thank  him  for  his  kindness  to  your 
ladyship's  family.  My  Lord  Mohun  and  I  are  connected,  3'ou 
know,  by  marriage  —  though  neither  by  blood  nor  friendship ; 
but  I  must  repeat  what  1  said,  that  my  wife  can  receive  no 
presents  from  Colonel  Esmond." 

"M}'  daughter  maj'  receive  presents  from  the  Head  of  our 
House :  my  daughter  may  thankfull}^  take  kindness  from  her 
father's,  her  mother's,  her  brother's  dearest  friend  ;  and  be 
grateful  for  one  more  benefit  besides  the  thousand  we  owe 
him,"  cries  Lady  Esmond.  "What  is  a  string  of  diamond 
stones  compared  to  that  affection  he  hath  given  us  —  our  dearest 
preserver  and  benefactor?  We  owe  him  not  onl}'  Frank's  life, 
but  our  all  —  3'es,  our  all,"  says  m}-  mistress,  with  a  heightened 
color  and  a  trembling  voice.  "  The  title  we  bear  is  his,  if  he 
would  claim  it.  'Tis  we  who  have  no  right  to  our  name :  not 
he  that's  too  great  for  it.  He  sacrificed  his  name  at  m}^  fl3'ing 
lord's  bedside  —  sacrificed  it  to  my  orphan  chiklren ;  gave  up 
rank  and  honor  because  he  loved  us  so  nobly.  His  father  was 
Viscount  of  Castlewood  and  Marquis  of  Esmond  before  him ; 
and  he  is  his  father's  lawful  son  and  true  heir,  and  we  are  the 
recipients  of  his  bounty-,  and  he  the  chief  of  a  house  that's  as 
old  as  3'our  own.  And  if  he  is  content  to  forego  his  name  that 
my  child  may  bear  it,  we  love  him  and  honor  him  and  bless  him 
under  whatever  name  he  bears  "  —  and  here  the  fond  and  affec- 
tionate creature  would  have  knelt  to  Esmond  again,  but  that  he 
prevented  her ;  and  Beatrix,  running  up  to  her  with  a  pale 
face  and  a  cr}'  of  alarm,  embraced  her  and  said,  "  Mother,  what 
is  this?" 

"'Tis  a  family  secret,  my  Lord  Duke,"  says  Colonel  Es- 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  327 

mond  :  ' '  poor  Beatrix  knew  nothing  of  it ;  nor  did  my  lad}'  till 
a  year  ago.  And  I  have  as  good  a  right  to  resign  my  title  as 
your  Grace's  mother  to  abdicate  hers  to  you." 

'^  1  should  have  told  everything  to  the  Duke  of  Hamilton," 
said  m}'  mistress,  "  had  his  Grace  applied  to  me  for  my  daugh- 
ter's hand,  and  not  to  Beatrix.  I  should  have  spoken  with  you 
this  very  day  in  private,  my  lord,  had  not  3'our  words  brought 
about  this  sudden  explanation  —  and  now  'tis  fit  Beatrix  should 
hear  it ;  and  know,  as  I  would  have  all  the  world  know,  what 
we  owe  to  our  kinsman  and  patron." 

And  then  in  her  touching  wa^',  and  having  hold  of  her  daugh- 
ter's hand,  and  speaking  to  her  rather  than  my  Lord  Duke, 
Lad}"  Castlewood  told  the  story  which  you  know  already — ■ 
lauding  up  to  the  skies  her  kinsman's  behavior.  On  his  side 
Mr.  Esmond  explained  the  reasons  that  seemed  quite  sufficiently 
cogent  with  him,  wh3"the  succession  in  the  family,  as  at  present 
it  stood,  should  not  be  disturbed ;  and  he  should  remain  as  he 
was,  Colonel  Esmond. 

''And  Marquis  of  Esmond,  my  lord,"  says  his  Grace,  with 
a  low  bow.  "Permit  me  to  ask  your  lordship's  pardon  for 
words  that  were  uttered  in  ignorance  ;  and  to  beg  for  the  favor 
of  your  friendship.  To  be  allied  to  you,  sir,  must  be  an  honor 
under  whatever  name  3'ou  are  known "  (so  his  Grace  was 
pleased  to  say)  ;  "  and  in  return  for  the  splendid  present  you 
make  mj^  wife,  3'Our  kinswoman,  I  hope  3'ou  will  please  to  com- 
mand an3"  service  that  James  Douglas  can  perform.  I  shall 
never  be  easy  until  I  repay  you  a  part  of  my  obligations  at 
least ;  and  ere  very  long,  and  with  the  mission  lier  Majesty  hath 
given  me,"  says  the  Duke,  "  that  may  perhaps  be  in  my  power. 
I  shall  esteem  it  as  a  favor,  my  lord,  if  Colonel  Esmond  will 
give  awa3"  the  bride." 

"And  if  he  will  take  the  usual  payment  in  advance,  he 
is  welcome,"  says  Beatrix,  stepping  up  to' him  ;  and,  as  Esmond 
kissed  her,  she  whispered,  "  Oh,  why  didn't  I  know  3"ou 
before  ?  " 

My  Lord  Duke  was  as  hot  a^  a  flame  at  this  salute,  but  said 
never  a  word :  Beatrix  made  him  a  proud  curtsy,  and  the  two 
ladies  quitted  the  room  together. 

"  When  does  your  Excellency  go  for  Paris?"  asks  Colonel 
Esmond. 

"As  soon  after  the  ceremony  as  may  be,"  his  Grace  an- 
swered. "'Tis  fixed  for  the  first  of  Decenpber :  it  cannot  be 
sooner.  The  equipage  will  not  be  ready  till  then.  The  Queen 
intends  the  embassy  should  be  very  grand  —  and  I  have  law 


328  THE  HISTORY   OF   HEXRY  ESMOND. 

business  to  settle.  That  ill-omened  Mohun  has  come,  or  is 
coming,  to  London  again  i  we  are  in  a  lawsuit  about  my  late 
Lord  Gerard's  property ;  and  he  hath  sent  to  me  to  meet 
him." 


CHAPTER  V. 

MOHUN   APPEARS    FOR  THE    LAST   TIME    IN   THIS    HISTORY. 

Besides  mj'  Lord  Duke  of  Hamiltc^n  and  Brandon,  who  for 
famih'  reasons  had  kindlj'  promised  his  protection  and  patron- 
age to  Colonel  Esmond,  he  had  other  great  friends  in  power 
now,  both  able  and  willing  to  assist  him,  and  he  might,  witli 
such  alUes,  look  forward  to  as  fortunate  advancement  in  civil 
life  at  home  as  he  had  got  rapid  promotion  abroad.  His  Grac<i 
was  magnanimous  enough  to  offer  to  take  Mr.  Esmond  as  sec 
retary  on  his  Paris  embassy,  but  no  doubt  he  intended  that  pro- 
posal should  be  rejected ;  at  any  rate,  Esmond  could  not  bear 
the  thoughts  of  attending  his  mistress  farther  than  the  church- 
door  after  her  marriage,  and  so  declined  that  offer  which  his 
generous  rival  made  him. 

Other  gentlemen  in  power  were  liberal  at  least  of  compli- 
ments and  promises  to  Colonel  Esmond.  Mr.  Harle}-,  now 
become  m}'  Lord  Oxford  and  Mortimer,  and  installed  Knight 
of  the  Garter  on  the  same  day  as  his  Grace  of  Hamilton  had 
received  the  same  honor,  sent  to  the  Colonel  to  say  that  a  seat 
in  Parliament  should  be  at  his  disposal  presently,  and  Mr.  St. 
John  held  out  many  flattering  hopes  of  advancement  to  the 
Colonel  when  he  should  enter  the  House.  Esmond's  friends 
were  all  successful,  and  the  most  successful  and  triumphant  of 
all  was  his  dear  old  commander.  General  Webb,  who  was  now 
appointed  Lieutenant-General  of  the  Land  Forces,  and  received 
with  particular  honor  b}''  the  Ministr}',  b}'  the  Queen,  and  the 
people  out  of  doors,  who  huzza'd  the  brave  chief  when  the}^ 
used  to  see  him  in  his  chariot  going  to  the  House  or  to  the 
Drawing-room,  or  hobbling  on  foot  to  his  coach  from  St.  Ste- 
phen's upon  his  glorious  old  crutch  and  stick,  and  cheered  him 
as  loud  as  they  had  ever  done  Marlborough. 

That  great  Duke  was  utterly  disgraced ;  and  honest  old 
Webb  dated  all  his  Grace's  misfortunes  from  Wynendael,  and 
vowed  that  Fate  served  the  traitor  right.  Duchess  Sarah  had 
also  gone  to  ruin ;  she  had  been  forced  to  give  up  her  keys, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  329 

and  her  places,  and  her  pensions:  —  "Ah,  ah!"  sa^'s  Webb, 
"  she  would  have  locked  up  three  millions  of  French  crowns 
with  her  ke3's  had  I  but  been  knocked  on  the  head,  but  I  stopped 
that  convoy  at  Wj'nendael."  Our  enemy  Cardonnel  was  turned 
out  of  the  Flouse  of  Commons  (along  with  Mr.  Walpole)  for 
malversation  of  public  mone3\  Cadogan  lost  his  place  of  Lieu- 
tenant of  the  Tower.  Marlborough's  daughters  resigned  their 
posts  of  ladies  of  the  bedchamber ;  and  so  complete  was  the 
Duke's  disgrace,  that  his  son-in-law,  Lord  Bridgewater,  was 
absolutel}'  obliged  to  give  up  his  lodgings  at  St.  James's,  and 
had  his  half- pension,  as  Master  of  the  Horse,  taken  away.  But 
I  think  the  lowest  depth  of  Marlborough's  fall  was  when  he 
humbly  sent  to  ask  General  Webb  when  he  might  wait  upon 
him ;  he  who  had  commanded  the  stout  old  General,  who  had 
injured  him  and  sneered  at  him,  who  had  kept  him  dangling  in 
his  ante-chamber,  who  could  not  even  after  his  great  service 
condescend  to  write  him  a  letter  in  his  own  hand.  The  nation 
was  as  eager  for  peace  as  ever  it  had  been  hot  for  war.  The 
Prince  of  Savoy  came  amongst  us,  had  his  audience  of  the 
Queen,  and  got  his  famous  Sword  of  Honor,  and  strove  with  all 
his  force  to  form  a  Whig  party  together,  to  bring  over  the 
3^oung  Prince  of  Hanover  —  to  do  anything  which  might  prolong 
the  war,  and  consummate  the  ruin  of  the  old  sovereign  whom  he 
hated  so  implacably.  But  the  nation  was  tired  of  the  struggle  : 
so  completely  wearied  of  it  that  not  even  our  defeat  at  Denain 
could  rouse  us  into  any  anger,  though  such  an  action  so  lost 
two  years  before  would  have  set  all  England  in  a  ftny.  'Twas 
eas}'  to  see  that  the  great  Marlborough  was  not  with  the  arm}^ 
Eugene  was  obliged  to  fall  back  in  a  rage,  and  forego  the  daz- 
zling revenge  of  his  life.  'Twas  in  vain  the  Duke's  side  asked, 
"Would  we  suffiir  our  arms  to  be  insulted?  Would  we  not 
send  back  the  only  champion  who  could  repair  our  honor?" 
The  nation  had  had  its  bellyful  of  fighting ;  nor  could  taunts 
or  outcries  goad  up  our  Britons  au}^  more. 

For  a  statesman  that  was  always  prating  of  liberty,  and  had 
the  grandest  philosophic  maxims  in  his  mouth,  it  must  be  owned 
that  Mr.  St.  John  sometimes  rather  acted  like  a  Turkish  than 
a  Greek  philosopher,  and  especially  fell  foul  of  one  unfortunate 
set  of  men,  the  men  of  letters,  with  a  tyranny  a  little  extraor- 
dinary in  a  man  who  professed  to  respect  their  calling  so 
much.  The  literar}'  controversy  at  this  time  was  very  bitter, 
the  Government  side  was  the  winning  one,  the  popular  one, 
and  I  think  might  have  been  the  merciful  one.  'Twas  natural 
that  the  opposition  should  be  peevish  and  cry  out :  some  men 


330  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

did  so  from  their  hearts,  admiring  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's 
prodigious  talents,  and  deploring  the  disgrace  of  the  greatest 
general  the  world  ever  knew :  'twas  the  stomach  that  caused 
other  patriots  to  grumble,  and  such  men  cried  out  because  they 
were  poor,  and  paid  to  do  so.  Against  these  my  Lord  Boling- 
broke  never  showed  the  slightest  mere}',  whipping  a  dozen  into 
prison  or  into  the  pillory  without  the  least  commiseration. 

From  having  been  a  man  of  arms  Mr.  Esmond  had  now 
come  to  be  a  man  of  letters,  but  on  a  safer  side  than  that  in 
which  the  above-cited  poor  fellows  ventured  their  hberties  and 
ears.  There  was  no  danger  on  ours,  which  was  the  winning 
side  ;  besides,  Mr.  Esmond  pleased  himself  by  thinking  that 
he  writ  like  a  gentleman  if  he  did  not  always  succeed  as  a 
wit. 

Of  the  famous  wits  of  that  age,  who  have  rendered  Queen 
Anne's  reign  illustrious,  and  whose  works  will  be  in  all  English- 
men's hands  in  ages  yet  to  come,  Mr.  Esmond  saw  man3%  but 
at  public  places  chie% ;  never  having  a  great  intimac}^  with 
any  of  them,  except  with  honest  Dick  Steele  and  Mr.  Addison, 
who  parted  company  with  Esmond,  however,  when  that  gentle- 
man became  a  declared  Tory,  and  lived  on  close  terms  with  the 
leading  persons  of  that  party.  Addison  kept  himself  to  a  few 
friends,  and  very  rarely  opened  himself  except  in  their  com- 
pany. A  man  more  upright  and  conscientious  than  he  it  was 
not  possible  to  find  in  public  life,  and  one  whose  conversation 
was  so  various,  easy,  and  delightful.  Writing  now  in  my 
mature  years,  I  own  that  1  think  Addison's  politics  were  the 
right,  and  were  my  time  to  come  over  again,  I  would  be  a 
Whig  in  PZngJand  and  not  a  Tory ;  but  with  people  that  take  a 
side  in  politics,  'tis  men  rather  than  principles  that  commonly 
bind  them.  A  kindness  or  a  slight  puts  a  man  under  one  flag 
or  the  other,  and  he  marches  with  it  to  the  end  of  the  campaign. 
Esmond's  master  in  war  was  injured  b}'  Marlborough,  and  hated 
him  :  and  the  lieutenant  fought  the  quarrels  of  his  leader.  Webb 
coming  to  London  was  used  as  a  weapon  b}^  Marlborough's 
enemies  (and  true  steel  he  was,  that  honest  chief)  ;  nor  was  his 
aide-de-camp,  Mr.  Esmond,  an  unfaithful  or  unworth}'  partisan. 
'Tis  strange  here,  and  on  a  foreign  soil,  and  in  a  land  that  is 
independent  in  all  but  the  name,  (for  that  the  North  American 
colonies  shall  remain  dependants  on  yonder  little  island  for 
twenty  years  more,  I  never  can  think,)  to  remember  how  the 
nation  at  home  seemed  to  give  itself  up  to  the  domination  of 
one  or  other  aristocratic  party,  and  took  a  Hanoverian  king,  or 
a  French  one,  according  as  either  prevailed.     And  while  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY   ESMOND.  331 

Tories,  the  October  Club  gentlemen,  the  High  Church  parsons 
that  held  by  the  Church  of  England,  were  for  having  a  Papist 
king,  for  whom  many  of  their  Scottish  and  English  leaders,  firm 
churchmen  all,  laid  down  their  lives  with  admirable  lo^^alty  and 
devotion  ;  they  were  governed  by  men  who  liad  notoriously  no 
religion  at  all,  but  used  it  as  they  would  use  any  opinion  for  the 
purpose  of  forwarding  their  own  ambition.  The  Whigs,  on  the 
other  hand,  who  professed  attachment  to  religion  and  liberty 
too,  were  compelled  to  send  to  Holland  or  Hanover  for  a  mon- 
arch around  whom  the}-  could  rally.  A  strange  series  of  com- 
promises is  that  English  History  ;  compromise  of  principle, 
compromise  of  part}^,  compromise  of  worship  !  The  lovers  of 
English  fi'eedom  and  independence  submitted  their  religious 
consciences  to  an  Act  of  Parliament ;  could  not  consolidate 
their  liberty  without  sending  to  Zell  or  the  Hague  for  a  king  to 
live  under  ;  and  could  not  find  amongst  the  proudest  people  in 
the  world  a  man  speaking  their  own  language,  and  understand- 
ing their  laws,  to  govern  them.  The  Tory  and  High  Church 
patriots  were  ready  to  die  in  defence  of  a  Papist  familj'  that  had 
sold  us  to  France  ;  the  great  Whig  nobles,  the  sturdy  republican 
recusants  who  had  cut  off  Charles  Stuart's  head  for  treason, 
were  fain  to  accept  a  king  whose  title  came  to  him  through  a 
royal  grandmother,  whose  own  royal  grandmother's  head  had 
fallen  under  Queen  Bess's  hatchet.  And  our  proud  English 
nobles  sent  to  a  petty  German  town  for  a  monarch  to  come  and 
reign  in  London  ;  and  our  prelates  kissed  the  ugly  hands  of  his 
Dutch  mistresses,  and  thought  it  no  dishonor.  In  England  you 
can  but  belong  to  one  party  or  t'other,  and  you  take  the  house 
you  live  in  with  all  its  encumbrances,  its  retainers,  its  antique 
discomforts,  and  ruins  even  ;  3'ou  patch  up,  but  you  never  build 
up  anew.  Will  we  of  the  new  world  submit  much  longer,  even 
nominally,  to  this  ancient  British  superstition?  There  are  signs 
of  the  times  which  make  me  think  that  ere  long  we  shall  care 
as  little  about  King  George  here,  and  peers  temporal  and 
peers  spiritual,  as  we  do  for  King  Canute  or  the  Druids. 

This  chapter  began  about  the  wits,  my  grandson  ma^^  sa}^ 
and  hath  wandered  very  far  from  their  company.  The  pleasant- 
est  of  the  wits  I  knew  were  the  Doctors  Garth  and  Arbuthnot, 
and  Mr.  Gay,  the  author  of  "Trivia,"  the  most  charming  kind 
soul  that  ever  laughed  at  a  joke  or  cracked  a  bottle.  Mr.  Prior 
I  saw,  and  he  was  the  earthen  pot  swimming  with  the  pots  of 
brass  down  the  stream,  and  always  and  justl}^  frightened  lest  he 
should  break  in  the  voyage.  I  met  him  both  at  London  and 
Paris,  where  he  was  performing  piteous  congees  to  the  Duke  of 


332  THE  HISTOHY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

Shrewsbury,  not  having  courage  to  support  the  dignity  which 
his  undeniable  genius  and  talent  had  won  him,  and  writing 
coaxing  letters  to  Secretary  St.  John,  and  thinking  about  his 
plate  and  his  place,  and  what  on  earth  should  become  of  him 
should  his  party  go  out.  The  famous  Mr.  Congreve  I  saw  a 
dozen  of  times  at  Button's,  a  splendid  wreck  of  a  man,  mag- 
nificently attired,  and  though  gouty,  and  almost  blind,  bearing 
a  brave  face  against  fortune. 

The  great  Mr.  Pope  (of  whose  prodigious  genius  I  have  no 
words  to  express  my  admiration)  was  quite  a  puny  lad  at  this 
time,  appearing  seldom  in  public  places.  There  were  hun- 
dreds of  men,  wits,  and  pretty  fellows  frequenting  the  theatres 
and  coffee-houses  of  that  day  —  whom  "  nunc  perscribere  longum 
est."  Indeed  I  think  the  most  brilliant  of  that  sort  I  ever  saw 
was  not  till  fifteen  years  afterwards,  when  I  paid  my  last  visit 
in  England,  and  met  young  Harry  Fielding,  son  of  the  Fielding 
that  served  in  Spain  and  afterwards  in  Flanders  with  us,  and 
who  for  fun  and  humor  seemed  to  top  them  all.  As  for  the 
famous  Dr.  Swift,  I  can  say  of  him,  "  Vidi  tantum."  He  was 
in  London  all  these  years  up  to  the  death  of  the  Queen  ;  and  in 
a  hundred  pubhc  places  where  I  saw  him,  but  no  more ;  he 
never  missed  Court  of  a  Sunda}-,  where  once  or  twice  he  was 
pointed  out  to  your  grandfather.  He  would  have  sought  me 
out  eagerly  enough  had  I  been  a  great  man  with  a  title  to  m^' 
name,  or  a  star  on  my  coat.  At  Court  the  Doctor  had  no  eyes 
but  for  the  ver}^  greatest.  Lord  Treasurer  and  St.  John  used 
to  call  him  Jonathan,  and  the}'  paid  him  with  this  cheap  coin 
for  the  service  they  took  of  him.  He  writ  their  lampoons, 
fought  their  enemies,  flogged  and  bullied  in  their  service,  and  it 
must  be  owned  with  a  consummate  skill  and  fierceness.  'Tis 
said  he  hath  lost  his  intellect  now,  and  forgotten  his  wrongs  and 
his  rage  against  mankind.  I  have  always  thought  of  him  and 
of  Marlborough  as  the  two  greatest  men  of  that  age.  I  have 
read  his  books  (who  doth  not  know  them  ?)  here  in  our  calm 
woods,  and  imagine  a  giant  to  myself  as  I  think  of  him,  a  lonel}' 
fallen  Prometheus,  groaning  as  the  vulture  tears  him.  Prome- 
theus I  saw,  but  when  first  I  ever  had  any  words  with  him,  the 
giant  stepped  out  of  a  sedan  chair  in  the  Poultry,  whither  he 
had  come  with  a  tipsy  Irish  servant  parading  before  him,  who 
announced  him,  bawling  out  his  Reverence's  name,  whilst  his 
master  below  was  as  3'et  haggling  with  the  chairman.  I  dis- 
liked this  Mr.  Swift,  and  heard  many  a  stor}'  about  him,  of  his 
conduct  to  men,  and  his  words  to  women.  He  could  flatter  the 
great  as  much  as  he  could  bull}'  the  weak ;  and  Mr.  Esmond, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  333 

being  younger  and  hotter  in  that  day  than  now,  was  deter- 
mined, should  he  ever  meet  this  dragon,  not  to  run  away  from 
his  teeth  and  his  fire. 

Men  have  all  sorts  of  motives  which  carry  them  onwards  in 
life,  and  are  driven  into  acts  of  desperation,  or  it  may  be  of 
distinction,  from  a  hundred  different  causes.  There  was  one 
comrade  of  Esmond's,  an  honest  little  Irish  lieutenant  of  Handy- 
side's,  who  owed  so  much  money  to  a  camp  sutler,  that  he  be- 
gan to  make  love  to  the  man's  daughter,  intending  to  pa}-  his 
debt  that  way ;  and  at  the  battle  of  Malplaquet,  flying  away 
from  the  debt  and  lady  too,  he  rushed  so  desperately  on  the 
French  lines,  that  he  got  his  compan}' ;  and  came  a  captain  out 
of  the  action,  and  had  to  marry  the  sutler's  daughter  after  all, 
who  brought  him  his  cancelled  debt  to  her  father  as  poor  Roger's 
fortune.  To  run  out  of  the  reach  of  bill  and  marriage,  he  ran 
on  the  enemy's  pikes ;  and  as  these  did  not  kill  him  he  was 
thrown  back  upon  t'other  horn  of  his  dilemma.  Our  great  Duke 
at  the  same  battle  was  fighting,  not  the  French,  but  the  Tories 
in  England ;  and  risking  his  life  and  the  army's,  not  for  his 
country  but  for  his  pay  and  places ;  and  for  fear  of  his  wife  at 
home,  that  only  being  in  life  whom  he  dreaded.  I  have  asked 
about  men  in  my  own  company,  (new  drafts  of  poor  country 
boys  were  perpetuall3'  coming  over  to  us  during  the  wars,  and 
brought  from  the  ploughshare  to  the  sword,)  and  found  that  a 
half  of  them  under  the  flags  were  driven  thither  on  account  of 
a  woman :  one  fellow  was  jilted  bj'  his  mistress  and  took  the 
shilling  in  despair;  another  jilted  the  girl,  and  fled  from  her  and 
the  parish  to  the  tents  where  the  law  could  not  disturb  him. 
Why  go  on  particularizing?  What  can  the  sons  of  Adam  and 
Eve  expect,  but  to  continue  in  that  course  of  love  and  trouble 
their  father  and  mother  set  out  on?  Oh,  my  grandson  !  I  am 
drawing  nigh  to  the  end  of  that  period  of  my  history,  when  I 
was  acquainted  with  the  great  world  of  England  and  Europe ; 
my  years  are  past  the  Hebrew  poet's  limit,  and  I  say  unto  thee, 
all  my  troubles  and  joys  too,  for  that  matter,  have  come  from 
a  woman  ;  as  thine  will  when  thy  destined  course  begins.  'Twas 
a  woman  that  made  a  soldier  of  me,  that  set  me  intriguing 
afterwards  ;  I  believe  I  would  have  spun  smocks  for  her  had  she 
so  bidden  me ;  what  strength  I  had  in  my  head  I  would  have 
given  her ;  hath  not  every  man  in  his  degree  had  his  Omphale 
and  Delilah  ?  Mine  befooled  me  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames, 
and  in  dear  old  England ;  thou  mayest  find  thine  own  by  Rap- 
pahannock. 

To  please  that  woman  then  I  tried  to  distinguish  myself  as 


334  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENKY  ESMOND. 

a  soldier,  and  afterwards  as  a  wit  and  a  politician  ;  as  to  please 
another  I  would  have  put  on  a  black  cassock  and  a  pair  of  bands, 
and  had  done  so  but  that  a  superior  fate  intervened  to  defeat 
that  project.  And  I  sa}',  I  think  the  world  is  like  Captain 
Esmond's  com  pan}'  I  spoke  of  anon  ;  and  could  3'ou  see  every 
man's  career  in  life,  you  would  find  a  woman  clogging  him  ;  or 
clinging  round  his  march  and  stopping  him  ;  or  cheering  him 
and  goading  him  :  or  beckoning  him  out  of  her  chariot,  so  that 
he  goes  up  to  her,  and  leaves  the  race  to  be  run  without  him  ; 
or  bringing  him  the  apple,  and  saying  "  Eat ;  "  or  fetching  him 
the  daggers  and  whispering  "  Kill !  yonder  lies  Duncan,  and  a 
crown,  and  an  opportunit3\" 

Your  grandfather  fought  with  more  effect  as  a  politician  than 
as  a  wit :  and  having  private  animosities  and  grievances  of  his 
own  and  his  General's  against  the  great  Duke  in  command  of 
the  army,  and  more  information  on  military  matters  than  most 
writers,  who  had  never  seen  beyond  the  fire  of  a  tobacco-pipe 
at  "  Wills's,"  he  was  enabled  to  do  good  service  for  that  cause 
which  he  embarked  in,  and  for  Mr.  St.  John  and  his  party. 
But  he  disdained  the  abuse  in  which  some  of  the  Torj'^  writers 
indulged  ;  for  instance.  Dr.  Swift,  who  actually  chose  to  doubt 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  courage,  and  was  pleased  to  hint 
that  his  Grace's  militar}"  capacit}^  was  doubtful ;  nor  were 
Esmond's  performances  worse  for  the  effect  the}'  were  intended 
to  produce,  (though  no  doubt  they  could  not  injure  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  nearl}^  so  much  in  the  pubhc  eyes  as  the  malignant 
attacks  of  Swift  did,  which  were  carefully  directed  so  as  to 
blacken  and  degrade  him,)  because  they  were  writ  openly  and 
fairly  by  Mr.  Esmond,  who  made  no  disguise  of  them,  who  was 
now  out  of  the  arm}^  and  who  never  attacked  the  prodigious 
courage  and  talents,  onl}-  the  selfishness  and  rapacity,  of  the 
chief. 

The  Colonel  then,  having  writ  a  paper  for  one  of  the  Tory 
journals,  called  the  Post- Boy ^  (a  letter  upon  Bouchain,  that  the 
town  talked  about  for  two  whole  days,  when  the  appearance  of 
an  Italian  singer  supplied  a  fresh  subject  for  conversation,)  and 
having  business  at  the  Exchange,  where  Mistress  Beatrix  wanted 
a  pair  of  gloves  or  a  fan  ver}'  likel3%  Esmond  went  to  correct 
his  paper,  and  was  sitting  at  the  printer's,  when  the  famous 
Doctor  Swift  came  in,  his  Irish  fellow  with  him  that  used  to 
walk  before  his  chair,  and  bawled  out  his  master's  name  with 
great  dignit}^ 

Mr.  Esmond  was  waiting  for  the  printer  too,  whose  wife  had 
gone  to  the  tavern  to  fetch  him,  and  was  meantime  engaged  in 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HEXRY  ESMOND.  335 

drawing  a  picture  of  a  soldier  on  horseback  for  a  dirt}'  little 
prett}'  boy  of  the  printer's  wife,  whom  she  had  left  behind  her. 

"I  presume  3'ou  are  the  editor  of  the  Post-Boy^  sir?"  says 
the  Doctor,  in  a  grating  voice  that  had  an  Irish  twang  ;  and  he 
looked  at  the  Colonel  from  under  his  two  bushy  eyebrows  with 
a  pair  of  very  clear  blue  eyes.  His  complexion  was  muddy, 
his  figure  rather  fat,  his  chin  double.  He  wore  a  shabby  cas- 
sock, and  a  shabby-  hat  over  his  black  wig,  and  he  pulled  out  a 
great  gold  watch,  at  which  he  looks  very  fierce. 

"  I  am  but  a  contributor.  Doctor  Swift,"  saj's  Esmond,  with 
the  little  bo}'  still  on  his  knee.  He  was  sitting  with  his  baik  in 
the  window,  so  that  the  Doctor  could  not  see  him. 

"Who  told  you  I  was  Dr.  Swift?"  says  the  Doctor,  eying 
the  other  ver}'  haughtil}^ 

"Your  Reverence's  valet  bawled  out  your  name,"  says  the 
Colonel.     "  I  should  judge  3'ou  brought  him  from  Ireland  ?  " 

"And  pra}',  sir,  what  right  have  3^ou  to  judge  whether  m}' 
servant  came  from  Ireland  or  no?  I  want  to  speak  with  your 
emplo3er,  Mr.  Leach.     I'll  thank  ye  go  fetch  him." 

"Where's  your  papa.  Tommy?"  asks  the  Colonel  of  the 
child,  a  smutty  little  wretch  in  a  frock. 

Instead  of  answering,  the  child  begins  to  cry ;  the  Doctor's 
appearance  had  no  doubt  frightened  the  poor  little  imp. 

"  Send  that  squalling  little  brat  about  his  business,  and  do 
what  I  bid  ye,  sir,"  says  the  Doctor. 

"  I  must  finish  the  picture  first  forTomm}^,"  says  the  Colo- 
nel, laughing.  "  Here,  Tomm}',  will  you  have  3  our  Fandour 
with  whiskers  or  without?" 

"  Whisters,"  says  Tomm}^  quite  intent  on  the  picture. 

"  Who  the  devil  are  ye,  sir?  "  cries  the  Doctor  ;  "  are  j'e  a 
printer's  man  or  are  3'e  not?"  he  pronounced  it  hke  naught. 

"  Your  reverence  needn't  raise  the  devil  to  ask  who  I  am," 
says  Colonel  Esmond.  "  Did  3'ou  ever  hear  of  Doctor  Faustus, 
little  Tommy?  or  Friar  Bacon,  who  invented  gunpowder,  and 
set  the  Tiiames  on  fire  ?  " 

Mr.  Swift  turned  quite  red,  almost  purple.  "  I  did  not 
intend  an3'  offence,  sir,"  sa3's  he. 

"I  dare  say,  sir,  3'ou  offended  without  meaning,"  sa3'S  the 
other,  dryly. 

"  Who  arc  3-e,  sir?  Do  3"0U  know  who  I  am,  sir?  You  are 
one  of  the  pack  of  Grub  Street  scribblers  that  my  friend  Mr. 
Secretary  hath  laid  by  the  heels.  How  dare  3^e,  sir,  speak  to 
me  in  this  tone?"  cries  the  Doctor,  in  a  great  fume. 

"  I  beg  your  honor's  humble  pardon  if  I  have  offended  your 


336  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

honor,"  says  Esmond  in  a  tone  of  great  humilit}',  "Rather 
than  be  sent  to  the  Compter,  or  be  put  m  the  pillory,  there's 
nothing  I  wouldn't  do.  But  Mrs.  Leach,  the  printer's  lady, 
told  me  to  mind  Tommy  whilst  she  went  for  her  husband  to  the 
tavern,  and  I  daren't  leave  the  child  lest  he  sliould  fall  into 
the  fire  ;  but  if  your  Reverence  will  hold  him  — " 

"  I  take  the  little  beast!"  says  the  Doctor,  starting  back. 
"I  am  engaged  to  your  betters,  fellow.  Tell  Mr.  Leach  that 
when  he  makes  an  appointment  with  Dr.  Swift  he  had  best  keep 
it,  do  ye  hear?  And  keep  a  respectful  tongue  in  your  head, 
sir,  when  3-ou  address  a  person  like  me." 

"I'm  but  a  poor  broken-down  soldier,"  says  the  Colonel, 
"  and  I've  seen  better  days,  though  I  am  forced  now  to  turn 
my  hand  to  writing.     We  can't  help  our  fate,  sir." 

"You're  the  person  that  Mr.  Leach  hath  spoken  to  me  of, 
I  presume.  Have  the  goodness  to  speak  civilly  when  3'ou  are 
spoken  to  —  and  tell  Leach  to  call  at  my  lodgings  in  Bury  Street, 
and  bring  the  papers  with  him  to-night  at  ten  o'clock.  And 
the  next  time  you  see  me,  you'll  know  me,  and  be  civil,  Mr. 
Kemp." 

Poor  Kemp,  who  had  been  a  lieutenant  at  the  beginning  of 
the  war,  and  fallen  into  misfortune,  was  the  writer  of  the  Post- Boy  ^ 
and  now  took  honest  Mr.  Leach's  pa}^  in  place  of  her  Majesty's. 
Esmond  had  seen  this  gentleman,  and  a  very  ingenious,  hard- 
working honest  fellow  he  w^as,  toiling  to  give  bread  to  a  great 
famih',  and  watching  up  many  a  long  winter  night  to  keep  the 
wolf  from  his  door.  And  Mr.  St.  John,  who  had  libert}'  always 
on  his  tongue,  had  just  sent  a  dozen  of  the  opposition  writers 
into  prison,  and  one  actually  into  the  pillor}^  for  what  he  called 
libels,  but  libels  not  half  so  violent  as  those  writ  on  our  side. 
With  regard  to  this  YQry  piece  of  tyranny,  Esmond  had  remon- 
strated strongly  with  the  Secretary,  who  laughed  and  said  the 
rascals  were  served  quite  right ;  and  told  Esmond  a  joke  of 
Swift's  regarding  the  matter.  Naj^  more,  this  Irishman,  when 
St.  John  was  about  to  pardon  a  poor  wretch  condemned  to  death 
for  rape,  absolutely  prevented  the  Secretar}*  from  exercising 
this  act  of  good-nature,  and  boasted  that  he  had  had  the  man 
hanged ;  and  great  as  the  Doctor's  genius  might  be,  and  splen- 
did his  ability,  Esmond  for  one  would  affect  no  love  for  him, 
and  never  desired  to  make  his  acquaintance.  The  Doctor  was 
at  Court  every  Sunday  assiduously  enough,  a  place  the  Colonel 
frequented  but  rarely,  though  he  had  a  great  inducement  to  go 
there  in  the  person  of  a  fair  maid  of  honor  of  her  Majesty's ; 
ajid  the  airs  and  patronage  Mr.  Swift  gave  himself,  forgetting 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HEXRY  ESMOND.  337 

gentlemen  of  his  country  whom  he  knew  perfectl}^  his  loud 
talk  at  once  insolent  and  servile,  nay,  perhaps  his  very  intimacy 
with  Lord  Treasurer  and  the  Secretar}^  who  indulged  all  his 
freaks  and  called  him  Jonathan,  you  ma}'  be  sure,  were  re- 
marked by  many  a  person  of  whom  the  proud  priest  himself 
took  no  note,  during  that  time  of  his  vanity  and  triumph. 

'Twas  but  three  daj's  after  the  loth  of  November,  1712  (Es- 
mond minds  him  well  of  the  date) ,  that  he  went  by  invitation 
to  dine  with  his  General,  the  foot  of  whose  table  he  used  to 
take  on  these  festive  occasions,  as  he  had  done  at  many  a 
board,  hard  and  plentiful,  during  the  campaign.  This  was 
a  great  feast,  and  of  the  latter  sort ;  the  honest  old  gentleman 
loved  to  treat  his  friends  splendidly :  his  Grace  of  Ormonde, 
before  he  joined  his  army  as  generalissimo,  my  Lord  Viscount 
Bolingbroke,  one  of  her  Majest3''s  Secretaries  of  State,  my 
Lord  Orkney,  that  had  served  with  us  abroad,  being  of  the 
part}*.  His  Grace  of  Hamilton,  Master  of  the  Ordnance,  and 
in  whose  honor  the  feast  had  been  given,  upon  his  approaching 
departure  as  Ambassador  to  Paris,  had  sent  an  excuse  to 
General  Webb  at  two  o'clock,  but  an  hour  before  the  dinner : 
nothing  but  the  most  immediate  business,  his  Grace  said, 
should  have  prevented  him  having  the  pleasure  of  drinking 
a  parting  glass  to  the  health  of  General  Webb.  His  absence 
disappointed  Esmond's  old  chief,  who  suffered  much  from  his 
wounds  besides  ;  and  though  the  compan}^  was  grand,  it  was 
ratlier  gloom}-.  St.  John  came  last,  and  brought  a  friend  with 
him  :  "  I'm  sure,"  says  my  General,  bowing  very  politely,  "  my 
table  hath  always  a  place  for  Dr.  Swift." 

Mr.  Esmond  went  up  to  the  Doctor  with  a  bow  and  a  smile  : 
—  "I  gave  Dr.  Swift's  message,"  says  he,  "to  the  printer: 
I  hope  he  brought  your  pamphlet  to  your  lodgings  in  time." 
Indeed  poor  Leach  had  come  to  his  house  very  soon  after  the 
Doctor  left  it,  being  brought  away  rather  tipsy  from  the  tavern 
by  his  thrifty  wife  ;  and  he  talked  of  Cousin  Swift  in  a  maud- 
lin way,  though  of  course  Mr.  Esmond  did  not  allude  to  this 
relationship.  The  Doctor  scowled,  blushed,  and  was  much 
confused,  and  said  scarce  a  word  during  the  whole  of  dinner. 
A  very  little  stone  will  sometimes  knock  down  these  Goliaths 
of  wit ;  and  this  one  was  often  discomfited  when  met  by  a  man 
of  any  spirit ;  he  took  his  place  sulkily,  put  water  in  his  wine 
that  the  others  drank  plentifully,  and  scarce  said  a  word. 

The  talk  was  about  the  affairs  of  the  day,  or  rather  about 
persons  than  affairs :  my  Lady  Marlborough's  fury,  her  daugh- 
ters in  old  clothes  and  mob-caps  looking  out  from  their  windows 

22 


338  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

and  seeing  the  compan}^  pass  to  the  Drawing-room ;  the  gen^ 
tleman-usher's  horror  when  the  Prince  of  Savoy  was  introduced 
to  her  Majesty  in  a  tie-wig,  no  man  out  of  a  full-bottomed 
periwig  ever  having  kissed  the  Roj^al  hand  before ;  about  the 
Mohawks  and  the  damage  they  were  doing,  rushing  through 
the  town,  killing  and  murdering.  Some  one  said  the  ill-omened 
face  of  Mohun  had  been  seen  at  the  theatre  the  night  be- 
fore, and  Macartney  and  Meredith  with  him.  Meant  to  be  a 
feast,  the  meeting,  in  spite  of  drink  and  talk,  was  as  dismal 
as  a  funeral.  Every  topic  started  subsided  into  gloom.  His 
Grace  of  Ormonde  went  away  because  the  conversation  got 
upon  Denain,  where  we  had  been  defeated  in  the  last  campaign. 
Esmond's  General  was  affected  at  the  allusion  to  this  action 
too,  for  his  comrade  of  Wynendael,  the  Count  of  Nassau  Wou- 
denbourg,  had  been  slain  there.  Mr.  Swift,  when  Esmond 
pledged  him,  said  he  drank  no  wine,  and  took  his  hat  from  the 
peg  and  went  away,  beckoning  my  Lord  Bolingbroke  to  follow 
him ;  but  the  other  bade  him  take  his  chariot  and-  save  bis 
coach-hire  —  he  had  to  speak  with  Colonel  Esmond  ;  and  when 
the  rest  of  the  company  withdrew  to  cards,  these  two  remained 
behind  in  the  dark. 

Bolingbroke  alwa3's  spoke  freely  when  he  had  drunk  freely. 
His  enemies  could  get  any  secret  out  of  him  in  that  condition ; 
women  were  even  employed  to  pl}^  him,  and  take  his  words 
down.  I  have  heard  that  my  Lord  Stair,  three  years  after, 
when  the  Secretary  fled  to  France  and  became  the  Pretender's 
Minister,  got  all  the  information  he  wanted  by  putting  female 
spies  over  St.  John  in  his  cups.  He  spoke  freely-  now :  — 
*' Jonathan  knows  nothing  of  this  for  certain,  though  he  sus- 
pects it,  and  by  George,  Webb  will  take  an  Archbishopric, 
and  Jonathan  a  —  no,  —  damme  —  Jonathan  will  take  an  Arch- 
bishopric from  James,  I  warrant  me,  gladly  enough.  Your 
Duke  hath  the  string  of  the  whole  matter  in  his  hand,"  the 
Secretary  went  on.  "We  have  that  which  will  force  Marl- 
borough to  keep  his  distance,  and  he  goes  out  of  London  in 
a  fortniglit.  Prior  hath  his  business  ;  he  left  me  this  morning, 
and  mark  me,  Harry,  should  fate  carry  off  our  august,  our 
beloved,  our  most  gouty  and  plethoric  Queen,  and  Defender 
of  the  Faith,  la  bonne  cause  triomphera.  A  la  sante  de  la 
bonne  cause  !  Everything  good  comes  from  France.  Wine 
comes  from  France  ;  give  us  another  bumper  to  the  bonne 
cause."     We  drank  it  together. 

' '  Will  the  bonne  cause  turn  Protestant  ? "  asked  Mr.  Es- 
mond. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  339 

*'No,  hang  it,"  says  the  other,  "he'll  defend  our  Faith  as 
in  duty  bound,  but  he'll  stick  b}^  his  own.  The  Hind  and  the 
Panther  shall  run  in  the  same  car,  by  Jove.  Righteousness 
and  peace  shall  kiss  each  other :  and  we'll  have  Father  Mas- 
sillon  to  walk  down  the  aisle  of  St.  Paul's,  cheek  by  jowl  with 
Dr.  Sacheverel.  Give  us  more  wine  ;  here's  a  health  to  the 
bonne  cause,  kneehng  —  damme,  let's  drink  it  kneeling."  He 
was  quite  flushed  and  wild  with  wine  as  he  was  talking. 

"  And  suppose,"  sa3's  Esmond,  who  alwa3^s  had  this  gloomy 
apprehension,  "the  bonne  cause  should  give  us  up  to  the 
French,  as  his  father  and  uncle  did  before  him  ?  " 

"  Give  us  up  to  the  French  !  "  starts  up  Bolingbroke  ;  "  is 
there  any  P^nglish  gentleman  that  fears  that?  You  who  have 
seen  Blenheim  and  RamiUies,  afraid  of  the  French !  Your 
ancestors  and  mine,  and  brave  old  Webb's  yonder,  have  met 
them  in  a  hundred  fields,  and  our  children  will  be  ready  to  do 
the  like.  Who's  he  that  wishes  for  more  men  from  England? 
My  Cousin  Westmoreland?  Give  us  up  to  the  French, 
pshaw ! " 

"  His  uncle  did,"  says  Mr.  Esmond. 

' '  And  what  happened  to  his  grandfather  ? "  broke  out  St. 
John,  filling  out  another  bumper.  "  Here's  to  the  greatest 
monarch  England  ever  saw ;  here's  to  the  Englishman  that 
made  a  kingdom  of  her.  Our  great  King  came  from  Hunting- 
don, not  Hanover;  our  fathers  didn't  look  for  a  Dutchman  to 
rule  us.  Let  him  come  and  we'll  keep  him,  and  we'll  show 
him  Whitehall.  If  he's  a  traitor  let  us  have  him  here  to  deal 
with  him  ;  and  then  there  are  spirits  here  as  great  as  any  that 
have  gone  before.  There  are  men  here  that  can  look  at  dan- 
ger in  the  face  and  not  be  frightened  at  it.  Traitor !  treason  ! 
what  names  are  these  to  scare  you  and  me?  Are  all  Oliver's 
men  dead,  or  his  glorious  name  forgotten  in  fifty  j'ears?  Are 
there  no  men  equal  to  him,  think  j'ou,  as  good  —  a}^,  as  good? 
God  save  the  King !  and,  if  the  monarchy  fails  us,  God  save 
the  British  Repubhc  !  " 

He  filled  another  great  bumper,  and  tossed  it  up  and  drained 
it  wildly,  just  as  the  noise  of  rapid  carriage-wheels  approaching 
was  stopped  at  our  door,  and  after  a  hurried  knock  and  a 
moment's  interval,  Mr.  Swift  came  into  the  hall,  ran  up  stairs 
to  the  room  we  were  dining  in,  and  entered  it  with  a  perturbed 
face.  St.  John,  excited  with  drink,  was  making  some  wild 
quotation  out  of  Macbeth,  but  Swift  stopped  him. 

"  Drink  no  more,  ni}"  lord,  for  God's  sake!"  says  he.  ''I 
come  with  the  most  dreadful  news." 


340  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

"Is  the  Queen  dead?"  cries  out  Bolingbroke,  seizing  on 
a  water-glass. 

"No,  Duke  Hamilton  is  dead:  he  was  murdered  an  hour 
ago  by  Mohun  and  Macartne}^ ;  they  had  a  quarrel  this  morn- 
ing ;  the}'  gave  him  not  so  much  time  as  to  write  a  letter.  He 
went  for  a  couple  of  his  friends,  and  he  is  dead,  and  Mohun, 
too,  the  blood}^  villain,  who  was  set  on  him.  They  fought  in 
H^^de  Park  just  before  sunset ;  the  Duke  killed  Mohun,  and 
Macartne}^  came  up  and  stabbed  him,  and  the  dog  is  fled.  I 
have  3'our  chariot  below ;  send  to  every  part  of  the  countr^ 
and  apprehend  that  villain ;  come  to  the  Duke's  house  and 
see  if  any  life  be  left  in  him." 

"  Oh,  Beatrix,  Beatrix,"  thought  Esmond,  "  and  here  ends 
my  poor  girl's  ambition  !  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

POOR   BEATRIX. 

There  had  been  no  need  to  urge  upon  Esmond  the  necessity 
of  a  separation  between  him  and  Beatrix :  Fate  had  done  that 
completel}^ ;  and  I  think  from  the  very  moment  poor  Beatrix 
had  accepted  the  Duke's  offer,  she  began  to  assume  the  majestic 
air  of  a  Duchess,  na}^.  Queen  Elect,  and  to  carr}'  herself  as  one 
sacred  and  removed  from  us  common  people.  Her  mother  and 
kinsman  both  fell  into  her  ways,  the  latter  scornfully  perhaps, 
and  uttering  his  usual  gibes  at  her  vanity  and  his  own.  There 
was  a  certain  charm  about  this  girl  of  which  neither  Colonel 
Esmond  nor  his  fond  mistress  could  forego  the  fascination  ;  in 
spite  of  her  faults  and  her  pride  and  wilfulness,  the}^  were  forced 
to  love  her ;  and,  indeed,  might  be  set  down  as  the  two  chief 
flatterers  of  the  brilliant  creature's  court. 

Who,  in  the  course  of  his  life,  hath  not  been  so  bewitclied, 
and  worshipped  some  idol  or  another?  Y'ears  after  this  passion 
hath  been  dead  and  buried,  along  with  a  thousand  other  worldl}'' 
cares  and  ambitions,  he  who  felt  it  can  recall  it  out  of  its  grave, 
and  admire,  almost  as  fondly  as  he  did  in  his  3^outh,  that  lovel}^ 
queenly  creature.  I  invoke  that  beautiful  spiric  from  the  shades 
and  love  lier  still ;  or  rather  I  should  sa}^  such  a  past  is  alwaj^s 
present  to  a  man  ;  such  a  passion  once  felt  forms  a  part  of  his 
whole  being,  and  cannot  be  separated  from  it ;  it  becomes  a 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  341 

portion  of  the  man  of  to-day,  just  as  an}-  great  faith  or  convic- 
tion, the  discovery  of  poetry,  the  awakening  of  religion,  ever 
afterwards  influence  him  ;  just  as  the  wound  I  had  at  Blenheim, 
and  of  which  I  wear  the  scar,  hath  become  part  of  my  frame 
and  influenced  my  whole  body,  nay,  spirit  subsequently,  though 
'twas  got  and  healed  fort}^  years  ago.  Parting  and  forgetting ! 
What  faithful  heart  can  do  these?  Our  great  thoughts,  our 
great  affections,  the  Truths  of  our  life,  never  leave  us.  Surely, 
they  cannot  separate  from  our  consciousness ;  shall  follow  it 
whithersoever  that  shall  go  ;  and  are  of  their  nature  divine  and 
immortal. 

With  the  horrible  news  of  this  catastrophe,  which  was  con- 
firmed by  the  weeping  domestics  at  the  Duke's  own  door, 
Esmond  rode  homewards  as  quick  as  his  lazy  coach  would 
carry  him,  devising  all  the  time  how  he  should  break  the  intel- 
hgence  to  the  person  most  concerned  in  it ;  and  if  a  satire  upon 
human  vanity  could  be  needed,  that  poor  soul  afforded  it  in  the 
altered  company  and  occupations  in  which  Esmond  found  her. 
For  days  before,  her  chariot  had  been  rolling  the  street  from 
mercer  to  toyshop  —  from  goldsmith  to  laceman  :  her  taste  was 
perfect,  or  at  least  the  fond  bridegroom  had  thought  so,  and  had 
given  her  entire  authority  over  all  tradesmen,  and  for  all  the 
plate,  furniture  and  equipages,  with  w^hich  his  Grace  the  Am- 
bassador wished  to  adorn  his  splendid  mission.  She  must  have 
her  picture  b}"  Kneller,  a  duchess  not  being  complete  without  a 
portrait,  and  a  noble  one  he  made,  and  actually  sketched  in,  on 
a  cushion,  a  coronet  which  she  was  about  to  wear.  She  vowed 
she  would  wear  it  at  King  James  the  Third's  coronation,  and 
never  a  princess  in  the  land  would  have  become  ermine  better. 
Esmond  found  the  ante-chamber  crowded  with  miUiners  and 
toyshop  women,  obsequious  goldsmiths  with  jewels,  salvers, 
and  tankards  ;  and  mercers'  men  with  hangings,  and  velvets, 
and  brocades.  My  Lady  Duchess  elect  was  giving  audience 
to  one  famous  silversmith  from  Exeter  Change,  who  brought 
with  him  a  great  chased  salver,  of  which  he  was  pointing  out 
the  beauties  as  Colonel  Esmond  entered.  "  Come,"  sa^'s  she, 
"  cousin,  and  admire  the  taste  of  this  prett}^  thing."  I  think 
Mars  and  Venus  were  lying  in  the  golden  bower,  that  one  gilt 
Cupid  carried  off"  the  war-god's  casque  —  another  his  sword  — 
another  his  great  buckler,  upon  which  my  Lord  Duke  Hamil- 
ton's arms  with  ours  were  to  be  engraved  —  and  a  fourth  was 
kneeling  down  to  the  reclining  goddess  with  the  ducal  coronet 
in  her  hands,  God  help  us  !  The  next  time  Mr.  Esmond  saw 
that  piece  of  plate,  the  arms  were  changed,  the  ducal  coronet 


342  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

had  been  replaced  by  a  viscount's  ;  it  formed  part  of  the  fortune 
of  the  thrift}^  goldsmith's  own  daughter,  when  she  married  my 
Lord  Viscount  Squanderfield  two  3'ears  after. 

"  Isn't  this  a  beautiful  piece?"  says  Beatrix,  examining  it, 
and  she  pointed  out  the  arch  graces  of  the  Cupids,  and  the  fine 
carving  of  the  languid  prostrate  Mars.  Esmond  sickened  as  he 
thought  of  the  warrior  dead  in  his  chamber,  his  servants  and 
children  weeping  around  him ;  and  of  this  smiling  creature 
attiring  herself,  as  it  were,  for  that  nuptial  death-bed.  "  'Tis 
a  pretty  piece  of  vanitj',"  saj'S  he,  looking  gloomily  at  the 
beautiful  creature :  there  were  flambeaux  in  the  room  lighting 
up  the  brilliant  mistress  of  it.  She  lifted  up  the  great  gold 
salver  with  her  fair  arms. 

"  Vanit}' !  "  sa3^s  she,  haughtily.  "  What  is  vanity  in  you, 
sir,  is  propriety  in  me.  You  ask  a  Jewish  price  for  it,  Mr. 
Graves  ;  but  have  it  I  will,  if  only  to  spite  Mr.  Esmond." 

"  Oh,  Beatrix,  la}-  it  down  !  "  ssiys  Mr.  Esmond.  "  Hero- 
dias  !  3'ou  know  not  what  3"ou  carry  in  the  charger." 

She  dropped  it  with  a  clang  ;  the  eager  goldsmith  running  to 
seize  his  fallen  ware.  The  lad3''s  face  caught  the  fright  from 
Esmond's  pale  countenance,  and  her  e3'es  shone  out  like  beacons 
of  alarm  :  —  "  What  is  it,  Henry  !  "  sa3's  she,  running  to  him, 
and  seizing  both  his  hands.  "  What  do  3'ou  mean  53''  3'our  pale 
face  and  gloom3^  tones  ?  " 

"  Come  awa3',  come  awa3^ !  "  says  Esmond,  leading  her :  she 
clung  frightened  to  him,  and  he  supported  her  upon  his  heart, 
bidding  the  scared  goldsmith  leave  them.  The  man  went  into 
the  next  apartment,  staring  with  surprise,  and  hugging  his 
precious  charger. 

"Ob,  m3^  Beatrix,  m3'  sister!"  sa3's  Esmond,  still  holding 
in  his  arms  the  pallid  and  affrighted  creature,  "  3'Ou  have  the 
greatest  courage  of  an3'  woman  in  the  world ;  prepare  to  show 
it  now,  for  3'ou  have  a  dreadful  trial  to  bear." 

She  sprang  awa3'  from  the  friend  who  would  have  protected 
her :  —  "  Hath  he  left  me?  "  sa3^s  she.  "  We  had  words  this 
morning :  he  was  very  gloom3',  and  I  angered  him :  but  he 
dared  not,  he  dared  not ! "  As  she  spoke  a  burning  blush 
flushed  over  her  whole  face  and  bosom.  Esmond  saw  it 
reflected  in  the  glass  b\^  which  she  stood,  with  clenched  hands, 
pressing  her  swelling  heart. 

"  He  has  left  you,"  sa3^s  Esmond,  wondering  that  rage 
rather  than  sorrow  was  in  her  looks. 

''  And  he  is  alive,"  cried  Beatrix,  "  and  you  bring  me  this 
commission  !     He  has  left  me,  and  3'ou  haven't  dared  to  avenge 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  343 

me  !  You,  that  pretend  to  be  the  champion  of  our  house,  have 
let  me  suffer  this  insult !  Where  is  Castlewood  ?  I  will  go  to 
tnj  brother." 

"  The  Duke  is  not  alive,  Beatrix,"  said  Esmond. 

She  looked  at  her  cousin  wildl}',  and  fell  back  to  the  wall  as 
though  shot  in  the  breast:  —  ''And  you  come  here,  and  — 
and  —  you  killed  him  ?  " 

*'  No  ;  thank  heaven  !  "  her  kinsman  said.  "  The  blood  of 
that  noble  heart  doth  not  stain  my  sword  !  In  its  last  hour 
it  was  faithful  to  thee,  Beatrix  Esmond.  Vain  and  cruel 
woman !  kneel  and  thank  the  awful  heaven  which  awards  life 
and  death,  and  chastises  pride,  that  the  noble  Hamilton  died 
true  to  3'ou  ;  at  least  that  'twas  not  3'our  quarrel,  or  your  pride, 
or  3^our  wicked  vanity,  that  drove  him  to  his  fate.  He  died  by 
the  blood^y  sword  which  already  had  drank  your  own  father's 
blood.  O  woman,  O  sister  !  to  that  sad  field  where  two  corpses 
are  lying  —  for  tlie  murderer  died  too  by  the  hand  of  the  man 
he  slew  —  can  you  bring  no  mourners  but  3'our  revenge  and 
3'our  vanity?  God  help  and  pardon  thee,  Beatrix,  as  he  brings 
this  awful  punishment  to  your  hard  and  rebellious  heart." 

Esmond  had  scarce  done  speaking,  when  his  mistress  came 
in.  The  colloquy  between  him  and  Beatrix  had  lasted  but  a 
few  minutes,  during  which  time  Esmond's  servant  had  carried 
the  disastrous  news  through  the  household.  The  army  of  Van- 
it3^  Fair,  waiting  without,  gathered  up  all  their  fripperies  and 
fled  aghast.  Tender  Lady  Castlewood  had  been  in  talk  above 
with  Dean  Atterbur3',  the  pious  creature's  almoner  and  director  ; 
and  the  Dean  had  entered  with  her  as  a  physician  whose  place 
was  at  a  sick-bed.  Beatrix's  mother  looked  at  Esmond  and 
ran  towards  her  daughter,  with  a  pale  face  and  open  heart  and 
hands,  all  kindness  and  pit3\  But  Beatrix  passed  her  b3',  nor 
would  she  have  any  of  the  medicaments  of  the  spiritual  physi- 
cian. "  I  am  best  in  m3'  own  room  and  b3^  m3'self,"  she  said. 
Her  e3'es  were  quite  dr3^ ;  nor  did  Esmond  ever  see  them  other- 
wise, save  once,  in  respect  to  that  grief.  She  gave  him  a  cold 
hand  as  she  went  out:  "Thank  you,  brother,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  and  with  a  simplicit3^  more  touching  than  tears  ;  ''all 
you  have  said  is  true  and  kind,  and  I  will  go  away  and  ask  par- 
don." The  three  others  remained  behind,  and  talked  over  the 
dreadful  story.  It  affected  Dr.  Atterbury  more  even  tlian  us, 
as  it  seemed.  The  death  of  Mohun,  her  husband's  murderer, 
was  more  awful  to  my  mistress  than  even  the  Duke's  unhappy 
end.  Esmond  gave  at  length  what  particulars  he  knew  of  their 
quarrel,  and  the  cause  of  it.     The  two  noblemen  had  long  been 


344  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

at  war  with  respect  to  the  Lord  Gerard's  propert}^,  whose  two 
daughters  my  Lord  Duke  and  Mohun  had  married.  The}^  had 
met  by  appointment  that  day  at  the  lawyer's  in  Lincohi's  Inn 
Fields  ;  had  words  which,  though  they  appeared  very  trifling  to 
those  who  heard  them,  were  not  so  to  men  exasperated  by  long 
and  previous  enmity.  Mohun  asked  my  Lord  Duke  where  he 
could  see  his  Grace's  friends,  and  within  an  hour  had  sent  two 
of  his  own  to  arrange  this  deadly  duel.  It  was  pursued  with 
such  fierceness,  and  sprung  from  so  trifling  a  cause,  that  all 
men  agreed  at  the  time  that  there  was  a  part}',  of  which  these 
three  notorious  brawlers  were  but  agents,  who  desired  to  take 
Duke  Hamilton's  life  away.  They  fought  tliree  on  a  side,  as 
in  that  tragic  meeting  twelve  years  back,  which  hath  been  re- 
counted already,  and  in  which  Mohun  performed  his  second 
murder.  They  rushed  in,  and  closed  upon  each  other  at  once 
without  any  feints  or  crossing  of  swords  even,  and  stabbed  one 
at  the  other  desperately,  each  receiving  many  wounds  ;  and 
Mohun  having  his  death- wound,  and  my  Lord  Duke  lying  by 
him.  Macartney  came  up  and  stabbed  his  Grace  as  he  lay  on 
the  ground,  and  gave  him  the  blow  of  which  he  died.  Colonel 
Macartney  denied  this,  of  which  the  horror  and  indignation  of 
the  whole  kingdom  would  nevertheless  have  him  guilt}',  and  fled 
the  country,  whither  he  never  returned. 

What  was  the  real  cause  of  the  Duke  Hamilton's  death  ?  —  a 
paltry  quarrel  that  might  easil}'  have  been  made  up,  and  with 
a  ruffian  so  low,  base,  profligate,  and  degraded  with  former 
crimes  and  repeated  murders,  that  a  man  of  such  renown  and 
princely  rank  as  my  Lord  Duke  might  have  disdained  to  sully 
his  sword  with  the  blood  of  such  a  villain.  But  his  spirit  was 
so  high  that  those  who  wished  his  death  knew  that  his  courage 
was  like  his  charity,  and  never  turned  any  man  away  ;  and  he 
died  by  the  hands  of  Mohun,  and  the  other  two  cut-throats  that 
were  set  on  him.  The  Queen's  ambassador  to  Paris  died,  the 
lo3'al  and  devoted  servant  of  the  House  of  Stuart,  and  a  Roj^al 
Prince  of  Scotland  himself,  and  carrying  the  confidence,  the 
repentance  of  Queen  Anne  along  with  his  own  open  devotion, 
and  the  good- will  of  millions  in  the  country  more,  to  the  Queen's 
exiled  brother  and  sovereign. 

That  party  to  which  Lord  Mohun  belonged  had  the  benefit 
of  his  service,  and  now  were  well  rid  of  such  a  ruffian.  He, 
and  Meredith,  and  Macartney,  were  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's 
men  ;  and  the  two  colonels  had  been  broke  but  the  jear  before 
for  drinking  perdition  to  the  Tories.  His  Grace  was  a  Whig 
now  and  a  Hanoverian,  and  as  eager  for  war  as  Prince  Eugene 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  345 

himself.  I  sa}'  not  that  he  was  privy  to  Duke  Hamilton's 
death,  I  say  that  his  party  profited  by  it ;  and  that  three  des- 
perate and  bloody  instruments  were  found  to  effect  that  murder. 
As  Esmond  and  the  Dean  walked  awa}"  from  Kensington 
discoursing  of  this  tragedy,  and  how  fatal  it  was  to  the  cause 
which  the}'  both  had  at  heart,  the  street-criers  were  already  out 
with  their  broadsides,  shouting  through  the  town  the  full,  true, 
and  horrible  account  of  the  death  of  Lord  Mohun  and  Duke 
Hamilton  in  a  duel.  A  fellow  had  got  to  Kensington,  and  was 
cr^'ing  it  in  the  square  there  at  very  early  morning,  when  Mr. 
Esmond  happened  to  pass  by.  He  drove  the  man  from  under 
Beatrix's  very  window,  whereof  the  casement  had  been  set  open. 
The  sun  was  shining  though  'twas  November :  he  had  seen  the 
market-carts  rolling  into  London,  the  guard  relieved  at  the  pal- 
ace, the  laborers  trudging  to  their  work  in  the  gardens  between 
Kensington  and  the  City  —  the  wandering  merchants  and  hawk- 
ers fining  the  ^ir  with  their  cries.  The  world  was  going  to  its 
business  again,  although  dukes  lay  dead  and  ladies  mourned  for 
them  ;  and  kings,  very  likely,  lost  their  chances.  So  night  and 
day  pass  awa}-,  and  to-morrow  comes,  and  our  place  knows  us 
not-  Esmond  thought  of  the  courier,  now  galloping  on  the 
North  road  to  inform  him,  who  was  Earl  of  Arran  yesterday, 
that  he  was  Duke  of  Hamilton  to-day,  and  of  a  thousand  great 
schemes,  hopes,  ambitions,  that  were  alive  in  the  gallant  heart, 
beating  a  few  hours  since,  and  now  in  a  little  dust  quiescent. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I   VISIT    CASTLE  WOOD    ONCE    MORE. 

Thus,  for  a  third  time,  Beatrix's  ambitious  hopes  were  cir- 
cumvented, and  she  might  well  believe  that  a  special  malignant 
fate  watched  and  pursued  her,  tearing  her  prize  out  of  her  hand 
just  as  she  seemed  to  grasp  it,  and  leaving  her  with  only  rage 
and  grief  for  her  portion.  Whatever  her  feelings  might  have 
been  of  anger  or  of  sorrow,  (and  I  fear  me  that  the  former 
emotion  was  that  which  most  tore  her  heart,)  she  would  take 
no  confidant,  as  people  of  softer  natures  would  have  done  under 
such  a  calamity :  her  mother  and  her  kinsman  knew  that  she 
would  disdain  their  pity,  and  that  to  offer  it  would  be  but  to 


346  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

infuriate  the  cruel  wound  which  fortune  had  inflicted.  We 
knew  that  her  pride  was  awfully  humbled  and  punished  by  this 
sudden  and  terrible  blow ;  she  wanted  no  teaching  of  ours  to 
point  out  the  sad  moral  of  her  stor}'.  Her  fond  mother  could 
give  but  her  prayers,  and  her  kinsman  his  faithful  friendship 
and  patience  to  the  unhappy,  stricken  creature  ;  and  it  was 
only  by  hints,  and  a  word  or  two  uttered  months  afterwards, 
that  Beatrix  showed  she  understood  their  silent  commiseration, 
and  on  her  part  was  secretly  thankful  for  their  forbearance. 
The  people  about  the  Court  said  there  was  that  in  her  manner 
which  frightened  away  scoffing  and  condolence  :  she  was  above 
their  triumph  and  their  pity,  and  acted  her  part  in  that  dread- 
ful tragedy  greatly  and  courageously ;  so  that  those  who  liked 
her  least  were  yet  forced  to  admire  her.  We,  who  watched 
her  after  her  disaster,  could  not  but  respect  the  indomitable 
courage  and  majestic  calm  with  which  she  bore  it.  "I  would 
rather  see  her  tears  than  her  pride,"  her  mother  said,  who  was 
accustomed  to  bear  her  sorrows  in  a  very  different  way,  and  to 
receive  them  as  the  stroke  of  God,  with  an  awful  submission 
and  meekness.  But  Beatrix's  nature  was  different  to  that 
tender  parent's  ;  she  seemed  to  accept  her  grief  and  to  defy  it ; 
nor  would  she  allow  it  (I  believe  not  even  in  private  and  in  her 
own  chamber)  to  extort  from  her  the  confession  of  even  a  tear 
of  humiliation  or  a  cry  of  pain.  Friends  and  children  of  our 
race,  who  come  after  me,  in  which  way  will  you  bear  your  tri- 
als ?  I  know  one  that  prays  God  will  give  3^ou  love  rather  than 
pride,  and  that  the  Eye  all-seeing  shall  find  you  in  the  humble 
place.  Not  that  we  should  judge  proud  spirits  otherwise  than 
charitably.  'Tis  nature  hath  fashioned  some  for  ambition  and 
dominion,  as  it  hath  formed  others  for  obedience  and  gentle 
submission.  The  leopard  follows  his  nature  as  the  lamb  does, 
and  acts  after  leopard  law  ;  she  can  neither  help  her  beauty,  nor 
her  courage,  nor  her  cruelty  ;  nor  a  single  spot  on  her  shining 
coat ;  nor  the  conquering  spirit  which  impels  her  ;  nor  the  shot 
which  brings  her  down. 

During  that  well-founded  panic  the  Whigs  had,  lest  the 
Queen  should  forsake  their  Hanoverian  Prince,  bound  by  oaths 
and  treaties  as  she  was  to  him,  and  recall  her  brother,  who  was 
allied  to  her  by  yet  stronger  ties  of  nature  and  duty  ;  the  Prince 
of  Savoy,  and  the  boldest  of  that  party  of  the  Whigs,  were  for 
bringing  the  .young  Duke  of  Cambridge  over,  in  spite  of  the 
Queen,  and  the  outcry  of  her  Tory  servants,  arguing  that  the 
Electoral  Prince,  a  Peer  and  Prince  of  the  Blood-Royal  of  this 
Realm  too,  and  in  the  line  of  succession  to  the  crown,  had  a 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  347 

right  to  sit  in  the  Parliament  whereof  he  was  a  member,  and  to 
dwell  in  the  country  which  he  one  day  was  to  govern.  Nothing 
but  the  strongest  ill  will  expressed  by  the  Queen,  and  the 
people  about  her,  and  menaces  of  the  Royal  resentment,  should 
this  scheme  be  persisted  in,  prevented  it  from  being  carried 
into  effect. 

The  boldest  on  our  side  were,  in  like  manner,  for  having  our 
Prince  into  the  country.  The  undoubted  inheritor  of  the  right 
divine  ;  the  feelings  of  more  than  half  the  nation,  of  almost  all 
the  clerg}^,  of  the  gentry  of  England  and  Scotland  with  him  ; 
entirel}'  innocent  of  the  crime  for  which  his  father  suffered  — 
brave,  young,  handsome,  unfortunate — who  in  England  would 
dare  to  molest  the  Prince  should  he  come  among  us,  and  fling 
himself  upon  British  generosity,  hospitality,  and  honor?  An 
invader  with  an  army  of  Frenchmen  behind  him.  Englishmen 
of  spirit  would  resist  to  the  death,  and  drive  back  to  the  shores 
whence  he  came  ;  but  a  Prince,  alone,  armed  with  his  right 
only,  and  relying  on  the  loyalty  of  his  people,  was  sure,  many 
of  his  friends  argued,  of  welcome,  at  least  of  safet}^  among  us. 
The  hand  of  his  sister  the  Queen,  of  the  people  his  subjects, 
never  could  be  raised  to  do  him  a  wrong.  But  the  Queen  was 
timid  by  nature,  and  the  successive  Ministers  she  had,  had 
private  causes  for  their  irresolution.  The  bolder  and  honester 
men,  who  had  at  heart  the  illustrious  3'oung  exile's  cause,  had 
no  scheme  of  interest  of  their  own  to  prevent  them  from  seeing 
the  right  done,^  and,  provided  only  he  came  as  an  Englishman, 
were  read}^  to  venture  their  all  to  welcome  and  defend  him. 

St.  John  and  Harley  both  had  kind  words  in  plenty  for  the 
Prince's  adherents,  and  gave  him  endless  promises  of  future 
support ;  but  hints  and  promises  were  all  they  could  be  got  to 
give ;  and  some  of  his  friends  were  for  measures  much  bolder, 
more  efficacious,  and  more  open.  With  a  part}^  of  these,  some 
of  whom  are  yet  alive,  and  some  whose  names  Mr.  Esmond  has 
no  right  to  mention,  he  found  himself  engaged  the  year  after 
that  miserable  death  of  Duke  Hamilton,  which  deprived  the 
Prince  of  his  most  courageous  ally  in  this  country.  Dean 
Atterbur}'  was  one  of  the  friends  whom  Esmond  ma^'  mention, 
as  the  brave  bishop  is  now  beyond  exile  and  persecution,  and 
to  him,  and  one  or  two  more,  the  Colonel  opened  himself  of  a 
scheme  of  his  own,  that,  backed  by  a  little  resolution  on  the 
Prince's  part,  could  not  fail  of  bringing  about  the  accomplish- 
ment of  their  dearest  wishes. 

My  young  Lord  Viscount  Castlewood  had  not  come  to  Eng- 
land to  keep  his  majority,  and  had  now  been  absent  from  the 


348  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

countr}^  for  several  3'ears.  The  year  when  his  sister  was  to  be 
married  and  Duke  Hamilton  died,  m^^  lord  was  kept  at  Brux- 
elles  by  his  wife's  Ij'ing-in.  The  gentle  Clotilda  could  not  bear 
her  husband  out  of  her  sight ;  perhaps  she  mistrusted  the  A'oung 
scapegrace  should  he  ever  get  loose  from  her  leading-strings ; 
and  she  kept  him  by  her  side  to  nurse  the  baby  and  administer 
posset  to  the  gossips.  Many  a  laugh  poor  Beatrix  had  had 
about  Frank's  uxoriousness  :  his  mother  would  have  gone  to 
Clotilda  when  her  time  was  coming,  but  that  the  mother-in-law 
was  already  in  possession,  and  the  negotiations  for  poor  Bea- 
trix's marriage  were  begun.  A  few  months  after  the  horrid 
catastrophe  in  Hyde  Park,  my  mistress  and  her  daughter  retired 
to  Castle  wood,  where  my  lord,  it  was  expected,  would  soon  join 
them.  But,  to  say  truth,  their  quiet  household  was  httle  to  his 
taste  ;  he  could  be  got  to  come  to  Walcote  but  once  after  his 
first  campaign  ;  and  then  the  young  rogue  spent  more  than  half 
his  time  in  London,  not  appearing  at  Court  or  in  public  under 
his  own  name  and  title,  but  frequenting  plays,  bagnios,  and  the 
very  worst  company,  under  the  name  of  Captain  Esmond 
(whereby  his  innocent  kinsman  got  more  than  once  into 
trouble)  ;  and  so  under  various  pretexts,  and  in  pursuit  of  all 
sorts  of  pleasures,  until  he  phmged  into  the  lawful  one  of  mar- 
riage, Frank  Castlewood  had  remained  away  from  this  country, 
and  was  unknown,  save  amongst  the  gentlemen  of  the  army, 
with  whom  he  had  served  abroad.  The  fond  heart  of  his 
mother  was  pained  by  this  long  absence.  'Twas  all  that  Henry 
Esmond  could  do  to  soothe  her  natural  mortification,  and  find 
excuses  for  his  kinsman's  levit^^ 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  1713,  Lord  Castlewood  thought  of 
returning  home.  His  first  child  had  been  a  daughter  ;  Clotilda 
was  in  the  way  of  gratifying  his  lordship  with  a  second,  and  the 
pious  youth  thought  that,  by  bringing  his  wife  to  his  ancestral 
home,  b}'  prayers  to  St.  Philip  of  Castlewood,  and  what  not, 
heaven  might  be  induced  to  bless  him  with  a  son  this  time,  for 
whose  coming  the  expectant  mamma  was  very  anxious. 

The  long-debated  peace  had  been  proclaimed  this  year  at 
the  end  of  March  ;  and  France  was  open  to  us.  Just  as  Frank's 
poor  mother  had  made  all  things  ready  for  Lord  Castlewood's 
reception,  and  was  eagerly  expecting  her  son,  it  was  by  Colonel 
Esmond's  means  that  the  kind  lady  was  disappointed  of  her 
longing,  and  obliged  to  defer  once  more  the  darling  hope  of  her 
heart. 

Esmond  took  horses  to  Castlewood.  He  had  not  seen  its 
ancient  gray  towers   and  well-remembered  woods   for   nearly 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  349 

fourteen  j^ears,  and  since  he  rode  thence  with  rn}^  lord,  to  whom 
his  mistress  with  her  young  children  bj^  her  side  waved  an  adieu. 
What  ages  seemed  to  have  passed  since  then,  what  years  of 
action  and  passion,  of  care,  love,  hope,  disaster  !  The  children 
were  grown  up  now,  and  had  stories  of  their  own.  As  for  Es- 
mond, he  felt  to  be  a  hundred  3-ears  old  ;  his  dear  mistress  only 
seemed  unchanged  ;  she  looked  and  welcomed  him  quite  as  of 
old.  There  was  the  fountain  in  the  court  babbling  its  familiar 
music,  the  old  hall  and  its  furniture,  the  carved  chair  mj'  late 
lord  used,  the  ver}^  flagon  he  drank  from.  Esmond's  mistress 
knew  he  would  like  to  sleep  in  the  little  room  he  used  to  occupy  ; 
'twas  made  read}'  for  him,  and  wall-flowers  and  sweet  herbs  set 
in  the  adjoining  chamber,  the  chaplain's  room. 

In  tears  of  not  unmanly  emotion,  with  prayers  of  submission 
to  the  awful  X)ispenser  of  death  and  life,  of  good  and  evil  for- 
tune, Mr.  Esmond  passed  a  part  of  that  first  night  at  Castlewood, 
lying  awake  for  man}  hours  as  the  clock  kept  tolling  (in  tones 
so  well  remembered),  looking  back,  as  all  men  will,  that  revisit 
their  home  of  childhood,  over  the  great  gulf  of  time,  and  sur- 
veying himself  on  the  distant  bank  yonder,  a  sad  little  melan- 
choly bo}'  with  his  lord  still  alive  —  his  dear  mistress,  a  girl  yet, 
her  children  sporting  around  her.  Years  ago,  a  boy  on  that 
very  bed,  when  she  had  blessed  him  and  called  him  her  knight, 
he  had  made  a  vow  to  be  faithful  and  never  desert  her  dear 
service.  Hadiie  kept  that  fond  boyish  promise?  Yes,  before 
heaven ;  yes,  praise  be  to  God  !  His  life  had  been  hers ;  his 
blood,  his  fortune,  his  name,  his  whole  heart  ever  since  had 
been  hers  and  her  children's.  All  night  long  he  was  dreaming 
his  boyhood  over  again,  and  waking  fitfull}^ ;  he  half  fancied  he 
heard  Father  Holt  calling  to  him  from  the  next  chamber,  and 
that  he  was  coming  in  and  out  of  from  the  mysterious  window. 

Esmond  rose  up  before  the  dawn,  passed  into  the  next  room, 
where  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  odor  of  the  wall-flowers  ; 
looked  into  the  brazier  where  the  papers  had  been  burnt,  into 
the  old  presses  where  Holt's  books  and  papers  had  been  kept, 
and  tried  the  spring  and  whether  the  window  worked  still.  The 
spring  had  not  been  touched  for  3'ears,  but  yielded  at  length, 
and  the  whole  fabric  of  the  window  sank  down.  He  lifted  it 
and  it  relapsed  into  its  frame ;  no  one  had  ever  passed  thence 
since  Holt  used  it  sixteen  years  ago. 

Esmond  remembered  his  poor  lord  saying,  on  the  last  day 
of  his  life,  that  Holt  used  to  come  in  and  out  of  the  house  like 
a  ghost,  and  knew  that  the  Father  liked  these  mysteries,  and 
practised  such  secret  disguises,  entrances  and  exits :  this  was 


350  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

the  way  the  ghost  came  and  went,  his  pupil  had  alwaj'S  con- 
jectured. Esmond  closed  the  casement  up  again  as  the  dawn 
was  rising  over  Castlewood  village  ;  he  could  hear  the  clinking 
at  the  blacksmith's  forge  j^onder  among  the  trees,  across  the 
green,  and  past  the  river,  on  which  a  mist  still  lay  sleeping. 

Next  Esmond  opened  that  long  cupboard  over  the  woodwork 
of  the  mantel-piece,  big  enough  to  hold  a  man,  and  in  which  Mr. 
Holt  used  to  keep  sundr}^  secret  properties  of  his.  The  two 
swords  he  remembered  so  well  as  a  bo}',  lay  actually  there  still, 
and  Esmond  took  them  out  and  wiped  them,  with  a  strange 
curiosity  of  emotion.  There  were  a  bundle  of  papers  here,  too, 
which  no  doubt  had  been  left  at  Holt's  last  visit  to  the  place,  in 
m}^  Lord  Viscount's  life,  that  very  day  when  the  priest  had 
been  arrested  and  taken  to  Hexham  Castle.  Esmond  made  free 
with  these  papers,  and  found  treasonable  matter  of  King  Wil- 
liam's reign,  the  names  of  Charnock  and  Perkins,  Sir  John  Fen- 
wick  and  Sir  John  Friend,  Rookwood  and  Lodwick,  Lords 
Montgomery  and  Ailesbury,  Clarendon  and  Yarmouth,  that  had 
all  been  engaged  in  plots  against  the  usurper ;  a  letter  from  the 
Duke  of  Berwick  too,  and  one  from  the  King  at  St.  Germains, 
offering  to  confer  upon  his  trusty  and  well-beloved  Francis  Vis- 
count Castlewood  the  titles  of  Earl  and  Marquis  of  Esmond, 
bestowed  b}'  patent  royal,  and  in  the  fourth  year  of  his  reign, 
upon  Thomas  Viscount  Castlewood  and  the  heirs-male  of  his 
body,  in  default  of  which  issue  the  ranks  and  dignities  were  to 
pass  to  Francis  aforesaid. 

This  was  the  paper,  whereof  my  lord  had  spoken,  which 
Holt  showed  him  the  very  day  he  was  arrested,  and  for  an 
answer  to  which  he  would  come  back  in  a  week's  time.  I  put 
these  papers  hastily  into  the  crypt  whence  I  had  taken  them, 
being  interrupted  by  a  tapping  of  a  hght  finger  at  the  ring  of 
the  chamber-door :  'twas  my  kind  mistress,  with  her  face  full 
of  love  and  welcome.  She,  too,  had  passed  the  night  wake- 
fuly,  no  doubt ;  but  neither  asked  the  other  how  the  hours  had 
been  spent.  There  are  things  we  divine  without  speaking,  and 
know  though  they  happen  out  of  our  sight.  This  fond  lady 
hath  told  me  that  she  knew  both  days  when  I  was  wounded 
abroad.  Who  shall  say  how  far  sympathy  reaches,  and  how 
truly  love  can  prophesy?  "  I  looked  into  your  room,"  was  all 
she  said ;  "the  bed  was  vacant,  the  little  old  bed  !  I  knew  I 
should  find  you  here."  And  tender  and  blushing  faintly  with  a 
benediction  in  her  eyes,  the  gentle  creature  kissed  him. 

They  walked  out,  hand-in-hand,  through  the  old  court,  and 
to  the  terrace-walir.^  where  the  grass  was  glistening  with  dew, 


THE  HISTORY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  351 

And  the  birds  in  the  green  woods  above  were  singing  their  deli- 
cious choruses  under  the  bhishing  morning  sky.  How  well  all 
things  were  remembered  !  The  ancient  towers  and  gables  of  the 
hall  darkling  against  the  east,  the  purple  shadows  on  the  green 
slopes,  the  quaint  devices  and  carvings  of  the  dial,  the  forest- 
crowned  heights,  the  fair  yellow  plain  cheerful  with  crops  and 
corn,  the  shining  river  rolling  through  it  towards  the  pearly 
hills  beyond  ;  all  these  were  before  us,  along  with  a  thousand 
beautiful  memories  of  our  youth,  beautiful  and  sad,  but  as  real 
and  vivid  in  our  minds  as  that  fair  and  always-remembered 
scene  our  eyes  beheld  once  more.  We  forget  nothing.  The 
memory  sleeps,  but  wakens  again  ;  I  often  think  how  it  shall  be 
when,  after  the  last  sleep  of  death,  the  reveilUe  shall  arouse  us 
for  ever,  and  the  past  in  one  flash  of  self-consciousness  rush 
back,  like  thesoul  revivified. 

The  house  would  not  be  up  for  some  hours  yet,  (it  was  July, 
and  the  dawn  was  only  just  awake,)  and  here  Esmond  opened 
himself  to  his  mistress,  of  the  business  he  had  in  hand,  and 
what  part  Frank  was  to  play  in  it.  He  knew  he  could  confide 
anything  to  her,  and  that  the  fond  soul  would  die  rather  than 
reveal  it ;  and  bidding  her  keep  the  secret  from  all,  he  laid  it 
entirely  before  his  mistress  (always  as  staunch  a  little  lo3^alist 
as  any  in  the  kingdom),  and  indeed  was  quite  sure  that  any 
plan  of  his  was-secure  of  her  applause  and  sympathy.  Never 
was  such  a  glorious  scheme  to  her  partial  mind,  never  such  a 
devoted  knight  to  execute  it.  An  hour  or  two  ma}^  have  passed 
whilst  they  were  having  their  colloqu}'.  Beatrix  came  out  to 
them  just  as  their  talk  was  over  ;  her  tall  beautiful  form  robed 
in  sable  (which  she  wore  without  ostentation  ever  since  last 
3'ear's  catastrophe),  sweeping  over  the  green  terrace,  and  cast- 
ing its  shadows  before  her  across  the  grass. 

She  made  us  one  of  her  grand  curtsies  smiling,  and  called  us 
"  the  young  people."  She  was  older,  paler,  and  more  majestic 
than  in  the  year  before  ;  her  mother  seemed  the  3'oungest  of  the 
two.  She  never  once  spoke  of  her  grief,  Lady  Castlewood  told 
Esmond,  or  alluded,  save  b}^  a  quiet  word  or  two,  to  the  death  of 
her  hopes. 

When  Beatrix  came  back  to  Castlewood  she  took  to  visiting 
all  the  cottages  and  all  the  sick.  She  set  up  a  school  of  chil- 
dren, and  taught  singing  to  some  of  them.  We  had  a  pair  of 
beautiful  old  organs  in  Castlewood  Church,  on  which  she  plaj^ed 
admirably,  so  that  the  music  there  became  to  be  known  in  the 
eountr}^  for  many  miles  round,  and  no  doubt  people  came  to 
see  the  fair  organist  as  well  as  to  hear  her.    Parson  Tusher  and 


352  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

his  wife  were  established  at  the  vicarage,  but  his  wife  had  brought 
him  no  children  wherewith  Tom  might  meet  his  enemies  at  the 
gate.  Honest  Tom  took  care  not  to  have  many  such,  his  great 
shovel-hat  was  in  his  hand  for  everybody.  He  was  profuse  of 
bows  and  compliments.  He  behaved  to  Esmond  as  if  the 
Colonel  had  been  a  Commander-in-Chief;  he  dined  at  the  hall 
that  da^',  being  Sunda}^,  and  would  not  partake  of  pudding 
except  under  extreme  pressure.  He  deplored  my  lord's  per- 
version, but  drank  his  lordship's  health  very  devoutly  ;  and  an 
hour  before  at  church  sent  the  Colonel  to  sleep,  with  a  long, 
learned,  and  refreshing  sermon. 

Esmond's  visit  home  was  but  for  two  days  ;  the  business  he 
had  in  hand  calling  him  away  and  out  of  the  country.  Ere 
he  went,  he  saw  Beatrix  but  once  alone,  and  then  she  sum- 
moned him  out  of  the  long  tapestr}^  room,  where  he  and  his 
mistress  were  sitting,  quite  as  in  old  times,  into  the  adjoining 
chamber,  that  had  been  Viscountess  Isabel's  sleeping  apart- 
ment, and  where  Esmond  perfectly  well  remembered  seeing  the 
old  lady  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  in  her  night-rail,  that  morning 
when  the  troop  of  guard  came  to  fetch  her.  The  most  beauti- 
ful woman  in  England  lay  in  that  bed  now,  whereof  the  great 
damask  hangings  were  scarce  faded  since  Esmond  saw  them 
last. 

Here  stood  Beatrix  in  her  black  robes,  holding  a  box  in  her 
hand  ;  'twas  that  which  Esmond  had  given  her  before  her  mar- 
riage, stamped  with  a  coronet  which  the  disappointed  girl  was 
never  to  wear ;  and  containing  his  aunt's  legacy  of  diamonds. 

"  You  had  best  take  these  with  3'ou,  Harry,"  says  she  ;  "I 
have  no  need  of  diamonds  any  more."  There  was  not  the 
least  token  of  emotion  in  her  quiet  low  voice.  She  held  out 
the  black  shagreen  case  with  her  fair  arm,  that  did  not  shake 
in  the  least.  Esmond  saw  she  wore  a  black  velvet  bracelet  on 
it,  with  m}'  Lord  Duke's  picture  in  enamel ;  he  had  given  it  her 
but  three  days  before  he  fell. 

Esmond  said  the  stones  were  his  no  longer,  and  strove  to 
turn  off  that  proffered  restoration  with  a  laugh :  "  Of  what 
good,"  says  he,  "are  the}^  to  me?  The  diamond  loop  to  his 
hat  did  not  set  off  Prince  Eugene,  and  will  not  make  mj-  3^el- 
low  face  look  any  handsomer." 

"You  will  give  them  to  your  wife,  cousin,"  says  she. 
"  My  cousin,  j^our  wife  has  a  lovel}'  complexion  and  shape." 

"  Beatrix,"  Esmond  burst  out,  the  old  fire  flaming  out  as  it 
would  at  times,  "  will  you  wear  those  trinkets  at  3^our  mar- 
riage ?    You  whispered  once  you  did  not  know  me  :  you  know 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY   ESMOND.  353 

me  better  now  :  how  I  sought,  what  I  have  sighed  for,  for  ten 
years,  what  foregone  !  " 

"  A  price  for  your  constancy,  my  lord  !  "  says  she  ;  "  such 
a  preux  chevalier  wants  to  be  paid.     Oh  fie,  cousin  I  " 

"  Again,"  Esmond  spoke  out,  "  if  I  do  something  you  have 
at  heart ;  something  worthy  of  me  and  3'ou  ;  something  that 
shall  make  me  a  name  with  which  to  endow  you  ;  will  you  take 
it?  There  was  a  chance  for  me  once,  you  said;  is  it  impos- 
sible to  recall  it?  Never  shake  your  head,  but  hear  me  ;  say 
you  will  hear  me  a  year  hence.  If  I  come  back  to  you  and 
bring  you  fame,  will  that  please  you  ?  If  I  do  what  3'ou  desire 
most  —  what  he  who  is  dead  desired  most  —  w411  that  soften 
you?" 

"What  is  it,  Henry?"  says  she,  her  face  hghting  up; 
"  what  mean  you?" 

''Ask  no  questions,"  he  said;  "wait,  and  give  me  but 
time  ;  if  I  bring  back  that  you  long  for,  that  I  have  a  thou- 
sand times  heard  you  pray  for,  will  3'ou  have  no  reward  for 
him  who  has  done  jon  that  service?  Put  awa}'  those  trin- 
kets, keep  them :  it  shall  not  be  at  my  marriage,  it  shall  not 
be  at  yours  ;  but  if  man  can  do  it,  I  swear  a  day  shall  come 
when  there  shall  be  a  feast  in  3^our  house,  and  you  shall  be 
proud  to  wear  them.  I  say  no  more  now ;  put  aside  these 
words,  and  lock  away  yonder  box  until  the  da3'  when  I  shall 
remind  you  of  both.  All  I  pra3^  of  3^ou  now  is,  to  wait  and  to 
remember." 

"You  are  going  out  of  the  country?"  sa3's  Beatrix,  in 
some  agitation. 

"Yes,  to-morrow,"  sa3's  Esmond. 

"  To  Lorraine,  cousin?"  says  Beatrix,  la3ing  her  hand  on 
his  arm  ;  'twas  the  hand  on  which  she  wore  the  Duke's  bracelet. 
"  Stay,  Harry  !  "  continued  she,  with  a  tone  that  had  more 
despondenc3^  in  it  than  she  was  accustomed  to  show.  "  Hear 
a  last  word.  I  do  love  3'ou.  I  do  admire  you  —  who  would 
not,  that  has  known  such  love  as  3^ours  has  been  for  us  all? 
But  I  think  I  have  no  heart ;  at  least  I  have  never  seen  the 
man  that  could  touch  it ;  and,  had  I  found  him,  I  would  have 
followed  him  in  rags  had  he  been  a  private  soldier,  or  to  sea, 
like  one  of  those  buccaneers  3"ou  used  to  read  to  us  about 
when  we  were  children.  I  would  do  anything  for  such  a  man, 
bear  anything  for  him  :  but  I  never  found  one.  You  were  ever 
too  much  of  a  slave  to  win  m3'  heart ;  even  my  Lord  Duke 
could  not  command  it.  I  had  not  been  happ3^  had  I  mar- 
ried him.     I  knew  that  three  months  after  our  engagement  — 

23 


354  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

and  was  too  vain  to  break  it.  Oh,  Hariy !  I  cried  once  or 
twice,  not  for  him,  but  with  tears  of  rage  because  I  could  not 
be  sorry  for  him.  I  was  frightened  to  find  I  was  glad  of  his 
death  ;  and  were  T  joined  to  3'ou,  I  should  have  the  same  sense 
of  servitude,  the  same  longing  to  escape.  We  should  both  be 
unhappy,  and  you  the  most,  who  are  as  jealous  as  the  Duke 
was  himself.  I  tried  to  love  him ;  I  tried,  indeed  I  did : 
affected  gladness  when  he  came :  submitted  to  hear  when 
he  was  by  me,  and  tried  the  wife's  part  I  thought  I 
was  to  play  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  But  half  an  hour 
of  that  complaisance  wearied  me,  and  what  would  a  lifetime 
be  ?  My  thoughts  were  away  when  he  was  speaking ;  and 
I  was  thinking,  Oh  that  this  man  would  drop  my  hand,  and 
rise  up  from  before  my  feet !  I  knew  his  great  and  noble 
qualities,  greater  and  nobler  than  mine  a  thousand  times,  as 
yours  are,  cousin,  I  tell  3'ou,  a  million  and  a  million  times  bet- 
ter. But  'twas  not  for  these  I  took  him.  I  took  him  to  have 
a  great  place  in  the  world,  and  I  lost  it.  I  lost  it,  and  do  not 
deplore  him  —  and  I  often  thought,  as  I  listened  to  his  fond 
vows  and  ardent  words.  Oh,  if  I  yield  to  this  man,  and  meet 
the  other ^  I  shall  hate  him  and  leave  him  !  I  am  not  good, 
Harrj' :  ray  mother  is  gentle  and  good  like  an  angel.  I  won- 
der how  she  should  have  had  such  a  child.  She  is  weak,  but  she 
would  die  rather  than  do  a  wrong ;  I  am  stronger  than  she,  but 
I  would  do  it  out  of  defiance.  I  do  not  care  for  what  the  par- 
sons tell  me  with  their  droning  sermons  :  I  used  to  see  them 
at  court  as  mean  and  as  worthless  as  the  meanest  woman  there. 
Oh,  I  am  sick  and  weary  of  the  world  !  I  wait  but  for  one 
thing,  and  when  'tis  done,  I  will  take  Frank's  religion  and  3'our 
poor  mother's,  and  go  into  a  nunner}',  and  end  hke  her.  Shall 
I  wear  the  diamonds  then?  —  they  say  the  nuns  wear  their  best 
trinkets  the  day  the}'  take  the  veil.  I  will  put  them  awa}'  as 
3'ou  bid  me ;  farewell,  cousin :  mamma  is  pacing  the  next 
room  racking  her  little  head  to  know  what  we  have  been  sa}"- 
ing.  She  is  jealous,  all  women  are.  I  sometimes  think  that  is 
the  onl}'  womanly  qualit}^  I  have." 

^'  Farewell.  Farewell,  brother."  She  gave  him  her  cheek 
as  a  brotherly  privilege.     The  cheek  was  as  cold  as  marble. 

Esmond's  mistress  showed  no  signs  of  jealousy  when  he 
returned  to  the  room  where  she  was.  She  had  schooled  her- 
self so  as  to  look  quite  inscrutably^,  when  she  had  a  mind. 
Amongst  her  other  feminine  qualities  she  had  that  of  being  a 
perfect  dissembler. 

He  rode  away  from  Castlewood  to  attempt  the  task  he  was 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HE^^RY  ESMOND.  355 

bound  on,  and  stand  or  fall  by  it;  in  truth  his  state  of  mind 
was  such,  that  he  was  eager  for  some  outward  excitement  to 
counteract  that  gnawing  malady  which  he  was  inwardly  en- 
during:. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

I    TRAVEL  TO    FRANCE    AND    BRING    HOME   A   PORTRAIT  OF    RIGAUD. 

Mr.  Esmond  did  not  think  fit  to  take  leave  at  Court,  or  to 
inform  all  the  world  of  Pall  Mall  and  the  coffee-houses,  that 
he  was  al)out  -to  quit  England  ;  and  chose  to  depart  in  the  most 
private  manner  possible.  He  procured  a  pass  as  for  a  French- 
man, through  Dr.  Atterbury,  who  did  that  business  for  him, 
getting  the  signature  even  from  Lord  Bolingbroke's  office, 
without  any  personal  apphcation  to  the  Secretar}'.  Lockwood, 
his  faithful  servant,  he  took  with  him  to  Castlewood,  and  left 
behind  there  :  giving  out  ere  he  left  London  that  he  himself 
was  sick,  and  gone  to  Hampshire  for  country  air,  and  so  de- 
parted as  silently  as  might  be  upon  his  business. 

As  Frank  Castk^wood's  aid  was  indispensable  for  Mr.  Es- 
mond's scheme,  his  first  visit  was  to  Bruxelles  (passing  by  way 
of  Antwerp,  where  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  was  in  exile), 
and  in  the  first-named  place  Harry  found  his  dear  young  Bene- 
dict, the  married  man,  who  appeared  to  be  rather  out  of  humor 
with  his  matrimonial  chain,  and  clogged  with  the  obstinate 
embraces  which  Clotilda  kept  round  his  neck.  Colonel  Esmond 
was  not  presented  to  her ;  but  Monsieur  Simon  was,  a  gentle- 
man of  the  Royal  Cravat  (Esmond  bethought  him  of  the  regi- 
ment of  his  honest  Irishman,  whom  he  had  seen  that  day  after 
Malplaquet,  when  he  first  set  eyes  on  the  3'oung  King)  ;  and 
Monsieur  Simon  was  introduced  to  the  Viscountess  Castlewood, 
nee  Comptesse  Wertheim ;  to  the  numerous  counts,  the  Lady 
Clotilda's  tall  brothers  ;  to  her  father  the  chamberlain  ;  and  to 
the  lady  his  wife,  Frank's  mother-in-law,  a  tall  and  majestic 
person  of  large  proportions,  such  as  became  the  mother  of 
such  a  company  of  grenadiers  as  her  warlike  sons  formed.  The 
whole  race  were  at  free  quarters  in  the  little  castle  nigh  to 
Bruxelles  which  Frank  had  taken ;  rode  his  horses  ;  drank  his 
wine  ;  and  lived  easil}^  at  the  poor  lad's  charges.  Mr.  Esmond 
had  always  maintained  a  perfect  fluency  in  the  French,  which 
was  his  mother  tongue ;  and  if  this  famil}^  (that  spoke  French 


356  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

with  the  twang  which  the  Flemings  use)  discovered  anj^  inac- 
curac}'  in  Mr.  Simon's  pronunciation,  'twas  to  be  attributed  to 
the  latter's  long  residence  in  England,  where  he  had  married 
and  remained  ever  since  he  was  taken  prisoner  at  Blenheim. 
His  story  was  perfectly  pat ;  there  were  none  there  to  doubt 
it  save  honest  Frank,  and  he  was  charmed  with  his  kinsman's 
scheme,  when  he  became  acquainted  with  it ;  and,  in  truth, 
always  admired  Colonel  Esmond  with  an  affectionate  fidelity-, 
and  thought  his  cousin  the  wisest  and  best  of  all  cousins  and 
men.  Frank  entered  heart  and  soul  into  the  plan,  and  hked  it 
the  better  as  it  was  to  take  him  to  Paris,  out  of  reach  of  his 
brothers,  his  father,  and  his  mother-in-law,  whose  attentions 
rather  fatigued  him. 

Castle  wood,  I  have  said,  was  born  in  the  same  3- ear  as  the 
Prince  of  Wales ;  had  not  a  little  of  the  Prince's  air,  height, 
and  figure ;  and,  especially  since  he  had  seen  the  Chevalier  de 
St.  George  on  the  occasion  before-named,  took  no  small  pride 
in  his  resemblance  to  a  person  so  illustrious  ;  which  likeness 
he  increased  b}'  all  means  in  his  power,  wearing  fair  brown 
periwigs,  such  as  the  Prince  wore,  and  ribbons,  and  so  forth, 
of  the  Chevalier's  color. 

This  resemblance  was,  in  truth,  the  circumstance  on  which 
Mr.  Esmond's  scheme  was  founded  ;  and  having  secured  Frank's 
secrecy  and  enthusiasm,  he  left  him  to  continue  his  journe}^ 
and  see  the  other  personages  on  whom  its  success  depended. 
The  place  whither  Mr.  Simon  next  travelled  was  Bar,  in 
Lorraine,  where  that  merchant  arrived  with  a  consignment  of 
broadcloths,  valuable  laces  from  Malines,  and  letters  for  his 
correspondent  there. 

Would  3'ou  know  how  a  prince,  heroic  from  misfortunes, 
and  descended  from  a  line  of  kings,  whose  race  seemed  to  be 
doomed  like  the  Atridse  of  old  —  would  you  know  how  he  was 
employed,  when  the  envoy  who  came  to  him  through  danger 
and  difficulty  beheld  him  for  the  first  time  ?  The  young  king, 
in  a  flannel  jacket,  was  at  tennis  with  the  gentlemen  of  his 
suite,  crying  out  after  the  balls,  and  swearing  like  the  meanest 
of  his  subjects.  The  next  time  Mr.  Esmond  saw  him,  'twas 
when  Monsieur  Simon  took  a  packet  of  laces  to  Miss  Ogle- 
thorpe :  the  Prince's  ante-chamber  in  those  days,  at  which 
ignoble  door  men  were  forced  to  knock  for  admission  to  his 
Majesty.  The  admission  was  given,  the  envoy  found  the  King 
and  the  mistress  together ;  the  pair  were  at  cards  and  his 
Majest}'  was  in  liquor.  He  cared  more  for  three  honors  than 
three  kingdoms  ;  and  a  half-dozen  glasses  of  ratafia  made  him 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  357 

forget  all  his  woes  and  his  losses,  his  father's  crown,  and  his 
grandfather's  head. 

Mr.  Esmond  did  not  open  himself  to  the  Prince  then.  His 
Majesty  was  scarce  in  a  condition  to  hear  him  ;  and  he  doubted 
whether  a  King  who  drank  so  much  could  keep  a  secret  in  his 
fuddled  head  ;  or  whether  a  hand  that  shook  so,  was  strong 
enough  to  grasp  at  a  crown.  However,  at  last,  and  after  tak- 
ing counsel  with  the  Prince's  advisers,  amongst  whom  were 
man}^  gentlemen,  honest  and  faithful,  Esmond's  plan  was  laid 
before  the  King,  and  her  actual  Majesty  Queen  Oglethorpe,  in 
council.  The  Prince  liked  the  scheme  well  enough  ;  'twas  easy 
and  daring,  and  suited  to  his  reckless  gayety  and  lively  youth- 
ful spirit.  In  the  morning  after  he  had  slept  his  wine  off,  he 
was  verj'  ga}',  lively,  and  agreeable.  His  manner  had  an  ex- 
treme charm  of  archness,  and  a  kind  simplicit\^ ;  and,  to  do 
her  justice,  her  Oglethorpean  Majesty  was  kind,  acute,  resolute, 
and  of  good  counsel ;  she  gave  the  Prince  much  good  advice 
that  he  was  too  weak  to  follow,  and  loved  him  with  a  fidelity 
which  he  returned  with  an  ingratitude  quite  Royal. 

Having  his  own  forebodings  regarding  his  scheme  should  it 
ever  be  fulfilled,  and  his  usual  sceptic  doubts  as  to  the  benefit 
which  might  accrue  to  the  countrj'  by  bringing  a  tipsy  3'oung 
monarch  back  to  it.  Colonel  Esmond  had  his  audience  of  leave 
and  quiet.  Monsieur  Simon  took  his  departure.  At  any  rate 
the  youth  at  Bar  was  as  good  as  the  older  Pretender  at  Han- 
over ;  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  the  Englishman  could  be 
dealt  with  as  eas}'  as  the  German.  Monsieur  Simon  trotted  on 
that  long  journey  from  Nancy  to  Paris,  and  saw  that  famous 
town,  stealthily  and  like  a  sp}^  as  in  truth  he  was  ;  and  where, 
sure,  more  magnificence  and  more  misery  is  heaped  together, 
more  rags  and  lace,  more  filth  and  gilding,  than  in  any  cit\'  in 
this  world.  Here  he  was  put  in  communication  with  the  King's 
best  friend,  his  half  brother,  the  famous  Duke  of  Berwick  ; 
Esmond  recognized  him  as  the  stranger  who  had  visited  Castle- 
wood  now  near  twenty  3'ears  ago.  His  Grace  opened  to  him 
when  he  found  that  Mr.  Esmond  was  one  of  Webb's  brave 
regiment,  that  had  once  been  his  Grace's  own.  He  was  the 
sword  and  buckler  indeed  of  the  Stuart  cause :  there  was  no 
stain  on  his  shield  except  the  bar  across  it,  wdiich  Marlborough's 
sister  left  him.  Had  Berwick  been  his  father's  heir,  James 
the  Third  had  assuredl}^  sat  on  the  English  throne.  He  could 
dare,  endure,  strike,  speak,  be  silent.  The  fire  and  genius, 
perhaps,  he  had  not  (that  were  given  to  baser  men),  but  except 
these  he  had  some  of  the  best  qualities  of  a  leader.     His  Grace 


358  THE  HISTOEY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

knew  Esmond's  father  and  history  ;  and  hinted  at  the  latter 
in  such  a  wa}'  as  made  the  Colonel  to  think  he  was  aware  of 
the  particulars  of  that  stor}'.  But  Esmond  did  not  choose  to 
enter  on  it,  nor  did  the  Duke  press  him.  Mr.  Esmond  said, 
"  No  doubt  he  should  come  b}^  his  name  if  ever  greater  people 
came  by  theirs." 

What  confirmed  Esmond  in  his  notion  that  the  Duke  of 
Berwick  knew  of  his  case  was,  that  when  the  Colonel  went 
to  pay  his  (hity  at  St.  Germains,  her  Majesty  once  addressed 
him  b}'  the  title  of  Marquis.  He  took  the  Queen  the  dutiful 
remembrances  of  her  goddaughter,  and  the  lady  whom,  in  the 
days  of  her  prosperity,  her  Majesty  had  befriended.  The  Queen 
remembered  Rachel  Esmond  perfectly  well,  had  heard  of  my 
Lord  Castiewood's  conversion,  and  was  much  edified  b}^  that 
act  of  heaven  in  his  favor.  She  knew  that  others  of  that  family 
had  been  of  the  only  true  church  too  :  ' '  Your  father  and  your 
mother,  M.  le  Marquis,"  her  Majest}^  said  (that  was  the  only 
time  she  used  the  phrase).  Monsieur  Simon  bowed  very  low, 
and  said  he  had  found  other  parents  than  his  own,  who  had 
taught  him  differently  ;  but  these  had  only  one  king  :  on  which 
her  Majesty  was  pleased  to  give  him  a  medal  blessed  by  the 
Pope,  which  had  been  found  very  efficacious  in  cases  similar  to 
his  own,  and  to  promise  she  would  offer  up  prayers  for  his  con- 
version and  that  of  the  family :  which  no  doubt  this  pious  lady 
did,  though  up  to  the  present  moment,  and  after  twenty-seven 
years,  Colonel  Esmond  is  bound  to  say  that  neither  the  medal 
nor  the  prayers  have  had  the  slightest  known  effect  upon  his 
religious  convictions. 

As  for  the  splendors  of  Versailles,  Monsieur  Simon,  the 
merchant,  only  beheld  them  as  a  humble  and  distant  spectator, 
seeing  the  old  King  but  once,  when  he  went  to  feed  his  carps ; 
and  asking  for  no  presentation  at  his  Majesty's  Court. 

By  this  time  my  Lord  Viscount  Castlewood  was  got  to  Paris, 
where,  as  the  London  prints  presently  announced,  her  lad3'ship 
was  brought  to  bed  of  a  son  and  heir.  For  a  long  while  after- 
wards she  was  in  a  delicate  state  of  health,  and  ordered  b}'  the 
physicians  not  to  travel ;  otherwise  'twas  well  known  that 
the  Viscount  Castlewood  proposed  returning  to  England,  and 
taking  up  his  residence  at  his  own  seat. 

Whilst  he  remained  at  Paris,  my  Lord  Castlewood  had  his 
picture  done  by  the  famous  French  painter.  Monsieur  Rigaud, 
a  present  for  his  mother  in  London  ;  and  this  piece  Monsieur 
Simon  took  back  with  him  when  he  returned  to  that  city,  which 
he  reached  about  May,  in  the  year  1714,  very  soon  after  which 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  359 

time  my  Lady  Castlewood  and  her  daughter,  and  their  kinsman. 
Colonel  Esmond,  who  had  been  at  Castlewood  all  this  time, 
likewise  returned  to  London  ;  her  ladyship  occupying  her  house 
at  Kensington,  Mr.  Esmond  returning  to  his  lodgings  at  Knights- 
bridge,  neai-er  the  town,  and  once  more  making  his  appearance 
at  all  public  places,  his  health  greatly  improved  by  his  long 
sta}'  in  the  countr}'. 

The  portrait  of  my  lord,  in  a  handsome  gilt  frame,  was  hung 
up  in  the  place  of  honor  in  her  lad3'ship's  drawing-room.  His 
lordship  was  represented  in  his  scarlet  uniform  of  Captain  of 
the  Guard,  with  a  light  brown  periwig,  a  cuirass  under  his 
coat,  a  blue  ribbon,  and  a  fall  of  Bruxelles  lace.  Many  of 
her  ladyship's  friends  admired  the  piece  beyond  measure,  and 
flocked  to  see  it ;  Bishop  Atterbury,  Mr.  Lesly,  good  old  Mr. 
Collier,  and  others  amongst  the  clergy,  were  delighted  with  the 
performance,  and  many  among  the  first  quality  examined  and 
praised  it ;  only  I  must  ow^n  that  Doctor  Tusher  happening  to 
come  up  to  London,  and  seeing  the  picture,  (it  was  ordinarily 
covered  by  a  curtain,  but  on  this  day  Miss  Beatrix  happened  to 
be  looking  at  it  wiien  the  Doctor  arrived,)  the  Vicar  of  Castle- 
wood vowed  he  could  not  see  any  resemblance  in  the  piece  to 
his  old  pupil,  except,  perhaps,  a  little  about  the  chin  and  the 
periwig ;  but  we  all  of  us  convinced  him  that  he  had  not  seen 
Frank  for  five  jears  or  more ;  that  he  knew  no  more  about  the 
Fine  Arts  than  a  ploughboy,  and  that  he  must  be  mistaken  ; 
and  we  sent  him  home  assured  that  the  piece  was  an  excellent 
likeness.  As  for  my  Lord  Bolingbroke,  who  honored  her  lady- 
ship with  a  visit  occasionally,  when  Colonel  Esmond  showed 
him  the  picture  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  asked  what  devilry 
he  was  engaged  on?  Esmond  owned  simply  that  the  portrait 
was  not  that  of  Viscount  Castlew^ood  ;  besought  the  Secretary 
on  his  honor  to  keep  the  secret ;  said  that  the  ladies  of  the 
house  were  enthusiastic  Jacobites,  as  was  well  known  ;  and 
confessed  that  the  picture  was  that  of  the  Chevalier  St. 
George. 

The  truth  is,  that  Mr.  Simon,  w-aiting  upon  Lord  Castlew^ood 
one  da}'  at  Monsieur  Rigaud's  whilst  his  lordship  was  sitting 
for  his  picture,  affected  to  be  much  struck  with  a  piece  repre- 
senting the  Chevalier,  whereof  the  head  onh'  was  finished,  and 
purchased  it  of  the  painter  for  a  hundred  crowais.  It  had  been 
intended,  the  artist  said,  for  Miss  Oglethorpe,  the  Prince's 
mistress,  but  that  young  lady  quitting  Paris,  had  left  the  w^ork 
on  the  artist's  hands ;  and  taking  this  piece  home,  wdien  my 
lord's  portrait  arrived,  Colonel  Esmond,  alias  Monsieur  Simon, 


360  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

had  copied  the  uniform  and  other  accessories  from  my  lord's 
picture  to  fill  up  Rigaud's  incomplete  canvas :  the  Colonel  all 
his  life  having  been  a  practitioner  of  painting,  and  especiall}" 
followed  it  during  his  long  residence  in  tlie  cities  of  Flanders, 
among  the  masterpieces  of  Van  D3'ck  and  Rubens.  My  grand- 
son hath  the  piece,  sucli  as  it  is,  in  Virginia  now. 

At  the  commencement  of  tlie  month  of  June,  Miss  Beatrix 
Esmond,  and  my  Lady  Viscountess,  her  mother,  arrived  from 
Castlewood  ;  the  former  to  resume  her  services  at  Court,  which 
had  been  interrupted  by  the  fatal  catastrophe  of  Duke  Hamilton's 
death.  She  once  more  took  her  place,  then,  in  her  Majesty's 
suite  and  at  the  Maids'  table,  being  always  a  favorite  with 
Mrs.  Masham,  the  Queen's  chief  woman,  partly  perhaps  on 
account  of  their  bitterness  against  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough, 
whom  Miss  Beatrix  loved  no  better  than  her  rival  did.  The 
gentlemen  about  the  Court,  my  Lord  BoUngbroke  amongst 
others,  owned  that  the  young  ladj-  had  come  back  handsomer 
than  ever,  and  that  the  serious  and  tragic  air  which  her  face 
now  involuntarily  wore  became  her  better  than  her  former 
smiles  and  archness. 

All  the  old  domestics  at  the  little  house  of  Kensington 
Square  were  changed ;  the  old  steward  that  had  served  the 
family  any  time  these  five-and-twenty  years,  since  the  birth  of 
the  children  of  the  house,  was  despatched  into  the  kingdom 
of  Ireland  to  see  my  lord's  estate  there :  the  housekeeper,  who 
had  been  m}'  lady's  woman  time  out  of  mind,  and  the  attendant 
of  the  young  children,  was  sent  away  grumbling  to  Walcote,  to 
see  to  the  new  painting  and  preparing  of  that  house,  which  m}^ 
Lady  Dowager  intended  to  occupy  for  the  future,  giving  up 
Castlewood  to  her  daughter-in-law  that  might  be  expected  daily 
from  France.  Another  servant  the  Viscountess  had  was  dis- 
missed too  —  with  a  gratuity  —  on  the  pretext  that  her  iad}^- 
ship's  train  of  domestics  must  be  diminished ;  so,  finally,  there 
was  not  left  in  the  household  a  single  person  who  had  belonged 
to  it  during  the  time  my  3'oung  Lord  Castlewood  was  yet  at 
home. 

For  the  plan  which  Colonel  Esmond  had  in  view,  and  the 
stroke  he  intended,  'twas  necessar}"  that  the  ver}'  smallest  num- 
ber of  persons  should  be  put  in  possession  of  his  secret.  It 
scarce  was  known,  except  to  three  or  four  out  of  his  family, 
and  it  was  kept  to  a  wonder. 

On  the  10th  of  June,  1714,  there  came  b}-  Mr.  Prior's  mes- 
senger from  Pans  a  letter  from  my  Lord  Viscount  Castlewood 
to  his  mother,  sa3ing  that  he  had  been  foolish  in  regard  of 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  361 

money  matters,  that  he  was  ashamed  to  own  he  had  lost  at 
play,  and  by  other  extravagances  ;  and  that  instead  of  having 
great  entertainments  as  he  had  hoped  at  Castlewood  this  year, 
he  must  live  as  quiet  as  he  could,  and  make  ever}'  effort  to  be 
saving.  So  far  ever}^  word  of  poor  Frank's  letter  was  true, 
nor  was  there  a  doubt  that  he  and  his  tall  brothers-in-law  had 
spent  a  great  deal  more  than  they  ought,  and  engaged  the 
revenues  of  the  Castlewood  property,  which  the  fond  mother 
had  husbanded  and  improved  so  carefulty  during  the  time  of 
her  guardianship. 

His  "Clotilda,"  Castlewood  went  on  to  say,  "was  still 
delicate,  and  her  physicians  thought  her  lying-in  had  best  take 
place  at  Paris.  He  should  come  without  her  ladyship,  and  be 
at  his  mother's  house  about  the  17th  or  18th  day  of  June,  pro- 
posing to  take  horse  from  Paris  immediatel}',  and  bringing  but 
a  single  servant  with  him ;  and  he  requested  that  the  lawyers 
of  Gray's  Inn  might  be  invited  to  meet  him  with  their  account, 
and  the  land-steward  come  from  Castlewood  with  his,  so  that 
he  might  settle  with  them  speedil}',  raise  a  sum  of  money 
whereof  he  stood  in  need,  and  be  back  to  his  viscountess  by 
the  time  of  her  l3ing-in."  Then  his  lordship  gave  some  of  the 
news  of  the  town,  sent  his  remembrance  to  kinsfolk,  and  so 
the  letter  ended.  'Twas  put  in  the  common  post,  and  no  doubt 
the  French  police  and  the  English  there  had  a  copy  of  it,  to 
which  they  were  exceeding  welcome. 

Two  days  after  another  letter  was  despatched  by  the  public 
post  of  France,  in  the  same  open  way,  and  this,  after  giving 
news  of  the  fashion  at  Court  there,  ended  by  the  following 
sentences,  in  which,  but  for  those  that  had  the  key,  'twould  be 
difficult  for  any  man  to  find  any  secret  lurked  at  all :  — 

"(Tlie  King  will  take)  medicine  on  Thursday.  Ilis  Majesty  is  better 
than  he  hath  been  of  late,  though  incommoded  by  indigestion  from  his  too 
great  appetite.  Madame  Maintenon  continues  well.  They  have  performed 
a  play  of  Mons.  Racine  at  St.  Cyr.  The  Duke  of  Shrewsbury  and  Mr. 
Prior,  our  envoy,  and  all  the  English  nobility  here  were  present  at  it. 
(Tlie  Viscount  Castlewood's  passports)  were  refused  to  him,  'twas  said; 
his  lordship  being  sued  by  a  goldsmith  for  Vaissdle  plate,  and  a  pearl  neck- 
lace supplied  to  Mademoiselle  Meruel  of  the  French  Comedy.  'Tis  a  pity 
such  news  should  get  abroad  (and  travel  to  England)  about  our  young 
nobility  here.  Mademoiselle  Meruel  has  been  sent  to  the  Fort  TEvesque  ; 
they  say  she  has  ordered  not  only  plate,  but  furniture,  and  a  chariot  and 
horses  (under  that  lord's  name),  of  which  extravagance  his  unfortunate 
Viscountess  knows  nothing. 

"(His  Majesty  will  be)  eighty-two  years  of  age  on  his  next  birthday. 
The  Court  prepares  to  celebrate  it  with  a  great  feast.  Mr,  Prior  is  in  a 
gad  way  about  their  refusing  at  home  to  send  him  his  plate.     All  here  ad- 


362  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

mired  my  Lord  Viscount's  portrait,  and  said  it  was  a  masterpiece  of  Rigaud. 
Have  you  seen  it?  It  is  (at  the  Lady  Castlewood's  house  in  Kensington 
Square).     I  think  no  English  painter  could  produce  such  a  juece. 

"  Our  poor  friend  the  Abbe  liatli  been  at  the  Bastile,  but  is  now  trans- 
ported to  the  Conciergerie  (where  liis  friends  may  visit  liim.  They  are  to 
ask  for)  a  remission  of  his  sentence  soon.  Let  us  hope  the  poor  rogue  will 
have  repented  in  prison. 

"  (The  Lord  Castlevvood)  has  had  the  affair  of  the  plate  made  up,  and 
departs  for  England. 

_  *'  Is  not  this  a  dull  letter  1     I  have  a  cursed  headache  with  drinking 
with  Mat  and  some  more  over-night,  and  tipsy  or  sober  am 

"  Thine  ever ." 

All  this  letter,  save  some  dozen  of  words  which  I  have  put 
above  between  brackets,  was  mere  idle  talk,  though  the  sub- 
stance of  the  letter  was  as  important  as  any  letter  well  could 
be.  It  told  those  that  had  the  key,  that  The  King  will  take 
the  Viscount  Castlewood's  passports  and  travel  to  England  under 
that  lord's  name.  Bis  Majesty  will  be  at  the  Lady  Castlewood's 
house  in  Kensington  Square^  where  his  friends  may  visit  him  ; 
they  are  to  ask  for  the  Lord  Castlewood.  This  note  may  have 
passed  under  Mr.  Prior's  eyes,  and  those  of  our  new  allies  the 
French,  and  taught  them  nothing;  though  it  explains  suffl- 
cientl}'  to  persons  in  London  what  the  event  was  which  was 
about  to  happen,  as  'twill  show  those  who  read  my  memoirs  a 
hundred  3'ears  hence,  what  was  that  errand  on  which  Colonel 
Esmond  of  late  had  been  busy.  Silently  and  swiftly  to  do 
that  about  which  others  were  conspiring,  and  thousands  of 
Jacobites  all  over  the  countr^'  clumsil}-  caballing ;  alone  to 
effect  that  which  the  leaders  here  were  only  talking  about; 
to  bring  the  Prince  of  Wales  into  the  country  openly  in  the 
face  of  all,  under  Bolingbroke's  verj-  eyes,  the  walls  placarded 
with  the  proclamation  signed  with  the  Secretary's  name,  and 
offering  five  hundred  pounds  reward  for  his  apprehension  :  this 
w^as  a  stroke,  the  playing  and  winning  of  which  might  well  give 
any  adventurous  spirit  pleasure  :  the  loss  of  the  stake  might 
involve  a  heav^'  penalty,  but  all  our  family  were  eager  to  risk 
that  for  the  glorious  chance  of  winning  the  game. 

Nor  shall  it  be  called  a  game,  save  perhaps  with  the  chief 
plaj'er,  who  was  not  more  or  less  sceptical  than  most  public 
men  with  whom  he  had  acquaintance  in  that  age.  (Is  there 
ever  a  public  man  in  England  that  altogether  believes  in  his 
party?  Is  there  one,  however  doubtful,  that  will  not  fight  for 
it?)  Young  Frank  was  ready  to  fight  without  much  thinking, 
he  was  a  Jacobite  as  his  father  before  him  was  ;  all  the  Es- 
monds were  Royahsts.     Give  him  but  the  word,  he  would  cry, 


THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  363 

"  God  save  King  James  !  "  before  the  palace  guard,  or  at  the 
Maypole  in  the  Strand ;  and  with  respect  to  the  women,  as  is 
usual  with  them,  'twas  not  a  question  of  party  but  of  faith ; 
their  belief  was  a  passion  ;  either  Esmond's  mistress  or  her 
daughter  would  have  died  for  it  cheerfully.  I  have  laughed 
often,  talking  of  King  William's  reign,  and  said  I  thought 
Lad}^  Castlewood  was  disappointed  the  King  did  not  pei'secute 
the  family  more ;  and  those  who  know  the  nature  of  w^omen 
may  fancy  for  themselves,  what  needs  not  here  be  written 
down,  the  rapture  with  which  these  neophytes  received  the 
mystery  when  made  known  to  them  ;  the  eagerness  with  which 
they  looked  forward  to  its  completion  ;  the  reverence  which 
they  paid  the  minister  who  initiated  them  into  that  secret  Truth, 
now  known  only  to  a  few,  but  presently  to  reign  over  the  world. 
Sure  there  is  no  bound  to  the  trustingness  of  women.  Look 
at  Arria  worshipping  the  drunken  clodpate  of  a  husband  who 
beats  her ;  look  at  Cornelia  treasuring  as  a  jewel  in  her  mater- 
nal heart  the  oaf  her  son  ;  I  have  known  a  woman  preach 
Jesuit's  bark,  and  afterwards  Dr.  Berkele3's  tar-w^ater,  as 
though  to  swallow  them  were  a  divine  decree,  and  to  refuse 
them  no  better  than  blasphem3\ 

On  his  return  from  France  Colonel  Esmond  put  himself  at 
the  head  of  this  little  knot  of  fond  conspirators.  No  death  or 
torture  he  knew  would  frighten  them  out  of  their  constancy. 
When  he  detailed  his  plan  for  bringing  the  King  back,  his 
elder  mistress  thought  that  that  Restoration  was  to  be  attrib- 
uted under  heaven  to  the  Castlewood  family  and  to  its  chief, 
and  she  worshipped  and  loved  Esmond,  if  that  could  be,  more 
than  ever  she  had  done.  She  doubted  not  for  one  moment  of 
the  success  of  his  scheme,  to  mistrust  which  would  have  seemed 
impious  in  her  eyes.  And  as  for  Beatrix,  when  she  became 
acquainted  with  the  plan,  and  joined  it,  as  she  did  with  all  her 
heart,  she  gave  Esmond  one  of  her  searching  bright  looks. 
"Ah,  Harry,"  says  she,  "why  were  you  not  the  head  of  our 
house  ?  You  are  the  only  one  fit  to  raise  it ;  wh}'  do  you  give 
that  silly  boy  the  name  and  the  honor?  But  'tis  so  in  the 
world  ;  those  get  the  prize  that  don't  deserve  or  care  for  it.  I 
wish  I  could  give  30U  your  silly  prize,  cousin,  but  I  can't; 
I  have  tried,  and  I  can't."  And  she  went  away,  shaking  her 
head  mournfully,  but  alwa3^s,  it  seemed  to  Esmond,  that  her 
liking  and  respect  for  him  was  greatly  increased,  since  she 
knew  what  capability  he  had  both  to  act  and  bear ;  to  do  and 
to  forego. 


364  THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    ORIGINAL    OF   THE    PORTRAIT    COMES    TO    ENGLAND. 

*TwAS  announced  in  the  famil}'^  that  my  Lord  Castle  wood 
would  arrive,  having  a  confidential  French  gentleman  in  his 
suite,  who  acted  as  secretary  to  his  lordship,  and  who,  being  a 
Papist,  and  a  foreigner  of  a  good  family,  though  now  in  rather 
a  menial  place,  would  have  his  meals  served  in  his  chamber, 
and  not  with  the  domestics  of  the  house.  The  Viscountess 
gave  up  her  bedchamber  contiguous  to  her  daughter's,  and 
having  a  large  convenient  closet  attached  to  it,  in  which  a  bed 
was  put  up,  ostensibly  for  Monsieur  Baptiste,  the  Frenchman  ; 
though,  'tis  needless  to  sa}',  when  the  doors  of  the  apartments 
were  locked,  and  the  two  guests  retired  within  it,  the  young 
viscount  became  the  servant  of  the  illustrious  Prince  whom  he 
entertained,  and  gave  up  gladl}^  the  more  convenient  and  airy 
chamber  and  bed  to  his  master.  Madam  Beatrix  also  retired 
to  the  upper  region,  her  chamber  being  converted  into  a  sitting- 
room  for  my  lord.  The  better  to  csiYvy  the  deceit,  Beatrix 
affected  to  grumble  before  the  servants,  and  to  be  jealous  that 
she  was  turned  out  of  her  chamber  to  make  wa}'  for  m}'  lord. 

No  small  preparations  were  made,  you  ma}'  be  sure,  and  no 
slight  tremor  of  expectation  caused  the  hearts  of  the  gentle 
ladies  of  Castlewood  to  flutter,  before  the  arrival  of  the  person- 
age'^ who  were  about  to  honor  their  house.  The  chamber  was 
ornamented  with  flowers  ;  the  bed  covered  with  the  very  finest 
of  linen  ;  the  two  ladies  insisting  on  making  it  themseWes,  and 
kneeling  down  at  the  bedside  and  kissing  the  sheets  out  of  re- 
spect for  the  web  that  was  to  hold  the  sacred  person  of  a  King. 
The  toilet  was  of  silver  and  crystal ;  there  was  a  copy  of 
"  Eikon  Basilike"  laid  on  the  writing-table  ;  a  portrait  of  the 
martyred  King  hung  always  over  the  mantel,  having  a  sword  of 
my  poor  Lord  Castlewood  underneath  it,  and  a  little  picture  or 
emblem  which  the  widow  loved  always  to  have  before  her  eyes 
on  waking,  and  in  which  the  hair  of  her  lord  and  her  two  chil- 
dren -was  worked  together.  Her  books  of  private  devotions,  as 
they  were  all  of  the  English  Church,  she  carried  away  with  her 
to  the  upper  apartment,  which  she  destined  for  herself.  The 
ladies  showed  Mr.  Esmond,  when  the}"  were  completed,  the 
fond  preparations  the}'  had  made.     'Twas  then  Beatrix  knelt 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  365 

down  and  kissed  the  linen  sheets.  As  for  her  mother,  Lady 
Castlewood  made  a  curtsy  at  the  door,  as  she  would  have  done 
to  the  allar  on  entering  a  church,  and  owned  that  she  considered 
the  chamber  in  a  manner  sacred. 

The  compan3^  in  the  servants'  hall  never  for  a  moment  sup- 
posed that  these  preparations  were  made  for  any  other  person 
than  the  young  viscount,  the  lord  of  the  house,  whom  his  fond 
mother  had  been  for  so  man}'  3'ears  without  seeing.  Both 
ladies  were  perfect  housewives,  having  the  greatest  skill  in  the 
making  of  confections,  scented  waters,  &c.,  and  keeping  a 
notable  superintendence  over  the  kitchen.  Calves  enough  were 
killed  to  feed  an  arm}'  of  prodigal  sons,  Esmond  thought,  and 
laughed  when  he  came  to  wait  on  the  ladies,  on  the  day  when 
the  guests  were  to  arrive,  to  find  two  pairs  of  the  finest  and 
roundest  arms  to  be  seen  in  England  (my  Lad}'  Castlewood 
was  remarkable  for  this  beauty  of  her  person),  covered  with 
flour  up  above  the  elbows,  and  preparing  paste,  and  turning 
rolling-pins  in  the  housekeeper's  closet.  The  guest  would  not 
arrive  till  supper-time,  and  my  lord  would  prefer  having  that 
meal  in  his  own  chamber.  You  may  be  sure  the  brightest  plate 
of  the  house  was  laid  out  there,  and  can  understand  why  it  was 
that  the  ladies  insisted  that  they  alone  would  wait  upon  the 
young  chief  of  the  family. 

Taking  horse.  Colonel  Esmond  rode  rapidly  to  Eochester, 
and  there  awaited  the  King  in  that  very  town  where  his  father 
had  last  set  his  foot  on  the  English  shore.  A  room  had  been 
provided  at  an  inn  there  for  my  Lord  Castlewood  and  his 
servant ;  and  Colonel  Esmond  timed  his  ride  so  well  that  he 
had  scarce  been  half  an  hour  in  the  place,  and  was  looking  over 
the  balcony  into  the  yard  of  the  inn,  when  two  travellers  rode 
in  at  the  inn  gate,  and  the  Colonel  running  down,  the  next 
moment  embraced  his  dear  young  lord. 

My  lord's  companion,  acting  the  part  of  a  domestic,  dis- 
mounted, and  was  for  holding  the  viscount's  stirrup  ;  but  Colo- 
nel Esmond,  calling  to  his  own  man,  who  was  in  the  court, 
bade  him  take  the  horses  and  settle  with  the  lad  who  had  ridden 
the  post  along  with  the  two  travellers,  crying  out  in  a  cavalier 
tone  in  the  French  language  to  my  lord's  companion,  and 
affecting  to  grumble  that  my  lord's  fellow  was  a  Frenchman, 
and  did  not  know  the  money  or  habits  of  the  country  :  —  "  My 
man  will  see  to  the  horses,  Baptiste,"  says  Colonel  Esmond : 
' '  do  you  understand  English  ?  "  "  Very  leetle  !  "  "  So,  follow 
my  lord  and  wait  upon  him  at  dinner  in  his  own  room."  The 
landlord  and  his  people  came  up  presently  bearing  the  dishes ; 


366  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

'twas  well  the}'  made  a  noise  and  stir  in  the  gallery,  or  they 
might  have  found  Colonel  Esmond  on  his  knee  before  Lord 
Castlewood's  servant,  welcoming  his  Majesty  to  his  kingdom, 
and  kissing  the  hand  of  the  King.  We  told  the  landlord  that 
the  Frenchman  would  wait  on  his  master ;  and  Esmond's  man 
was  ordered  to  keep  sentry  in  the  gallery  without  the  door. 
The  Prince  dined  with  a  good  appetite,  laughing  and  talking 
very  gayly,  and  condescendingl}^  bidding  his  two  companions 
to  sit  with  him  at  table.  He  was  in  better  spirits  than  poor 
Frank  Castlewood,  who  Esmond  thought  might  be  woe-begone 
on  account  of  parting  with  his  divine  Clotilda ;  but  the  Prince 
wishing  to  take  a  short  siesta  after  dinner,  and  retiring  to  an 
inner  chamber  where  there  was  a  bed,  the  cause  of  poor  Frank's 
discomfiture  came  out ;  and  bursting  into  tears,  with  many 
expressions  of  fondness,  friendship,  and  humiliation,  the  faith- 
ful lad  gave  his  kinsman  to  understand  that  he  now  knew  all 
the  truth,  and  the  sacrifices  which  Colonel  Esmond  had  made 
for  him. 

Seeing  no  good  in  acquainting  poor  Frank  with  that  secret, 
Mr.  Esmond  had  entreated  his  mistress  also  not  to  reveal  it  to 
her  son.  The  Prince  had  told  the  poor  lad  all  as  the}'  were 
riding  from  Dover:  "I  had  as  lief  he  had  shot  me,  cousin," 
Frank  said :  "  I  knew  you  were  the  best,  and  the  bravest,  and 
the  kindest  of  all  men  "  (so  the  enthusiastic  3'oung  fellow  went 
on);  "but  I  never  thought  I  owed  you  what  I  do,  and  can 
scarce  bear  the  weight  of  the  obligation." 

"  I  stand  in  the  place  of  your  fatlier,"  says  Mr.  Esmond, 
kindly,  "  and  sure  a  father  may  dispossess  himself  in  favor  of 
his  son.  I  abdicate  the  twopenny  crown,  and  invest  3'ou  with 
the  kingdom  of  Brentford ;  don't  be  a  fool  and  cry ;  you  make 
a  much  taller  and  handsomer  viscount  than  ever  I  could."  But 
the  fond  boy,  with  oaths  and  protestations,  laughter  and  in- 
coherent outbreaks  of  passionate  emotion,  could  not  be  got, 
for  some  little  time,  to  put  up  with  Esmond's  raillery ;  wanted 
to  kneel  down  to  him,  and  kissed  his  hand  ;  asked  him  and 
implored  him  to  order  something,  to  bid  Castlewood  give  his 
own  life  or  take  somebody  else's ;  anything,  so  that  lie  might 
show  his  gratitude  for  the  generosity  Esmond  showed  him. 

"  The  K ,  he  laughed,"  Frank  said,  pointing  to  the  door 

where  the  sleeper  was,  and  speaking  in  a  low  tone.  "  I  don't 
think  he  should  have  laughed  as  he  told  me  the  story.  As  we 
rode  along  from  Dover,  talking  in  French,  he  spoke  about  you, 
and  3'our  coming  to  him  at  Bar ;  he  called  3'ou  '  le  grand 
serieux,'   Don   Bellianis  of  Greece,  and   I  don't  know  what 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  367 

names ;  mimicking  j'our  manner "  (here  Castlewood  laughed 
himself)  —  "and  he  did  it  very  well.  He  seems  to  sneer  at 
everything.  He  is  not  like  a  king :  somehow  Hariy,  I  fancy 
3'ou  are  like  a  king.  He  does  not  seem  to  think  what  a  stake 
we  are  all  pla3'ing.  He  would  have  stopped  at  Canterburj^  to 
run  after  a  barmaid  there,  had  I  not  implored  him  to  come  on. 
He  hath  a  house  at  Chaillot,  where  he  used  to  go  and  bury 
himself  for  weeks  away  from  the  Queen,  and  with  all  sorts  of 
bad  compau}',''  says  Frank,  with  a  demure  look;  "you  may 
smile,  but  I  am  not  the  wild  fellow  I  was ;  no,  no,  I  have  been 
taught  better,"  says  Castlewood  devoutl}',  making  a  sign  on  his 
breast. 

"Thou  art  my  dear  brave  boy,"  says  Colonel  Esmond, 
touched  at  the  young  fellow's  simplicity,  "  and  there  will  be  a 
noble  gentleman  at  Castlewood  so  long  as  my  Frank  is  there." 

Tlie  impetuous  young  lad  was  for  going  down  on  his  knees 
again,  with  another  explosion  of  gratitude,  but  that  we  heard 
the  voice  from  the  next  chamber  of  the  august  sleeper,  just 
waking,  calling  out: — "Eh,  La-Fleur,  un  verre  d'eau !  " 
His  Majesty  came  out  3'awning : —  ''A  pest,"  says  he,  "  upon 
your  English  ale,  'tis  so  strong  that,  ma  foi^  it  hath  turned  my 
head." 

The  effect  of  the  ale  was  like  a  spur  upon  our  horses,  and  we 
rode  very  quickly  to  London,  reaching  Kensington  at  nightfall. 
Mr.  Esmond's  servant  was  left  behind  at  Rochester,  to  take 
care  of  the  tired  horses,  whilst  we  had  fresh  beasts  provided 
along  the  road.  And  galloping  by  the  Prince's  side  the  Colonel 
explained  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  what  his  movements  had  been  ; 
who  the  friends  were  that  knew  of  the  expedition  ;  whom,  as 
Esmond  conceived,  the  Prince  should  trust ;  entreating  him, 
above  all,  to  maintain  the  ver}'  closest  secrecy  until  the  time 
should  come  when  his  Roj^al  Flighness  should  appear.  The 
town  swarmed  with  friends  of  the  Prince's  cause  ;  there  were 
scores  of  correspondents  with  St.  Germains  ;  Jacobites  known 
and  secret ;  great  in  station  and  humble  ;  about  the  Court  and 
the  Queen  ;  in  the  Parliament,  Church,  and  among  the  mer- 
chants in  the  City.  The  Prince  had  friends  numberless  in  the 
army,  in  the  Privy  Council,  and  the  Officers  of  State.  The 
great  object,  as  it  seemed,  to  the  small  band  of  persons  who 
had  concerted  that  bold  stroke,  who  had  brought  the  Queen's 
brother  into  his  native  country,  was,  that  his  visit  should  re- 
main unknown  till  the  proper  time  came,  when  his  presence 
sliould  surprise  friends  and  enemies  alike  ;  and  the  latter  should 
bj  found  so  unprepared  and  disunited,  that  they  should  not  find 


368  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

time  to  attack  him.  We  feared  more  from  his  friends  than 
from  his  enemies.  The  lies  and  tittle-tattle  sent  over  to  St. 
Germains  b}^  the  Jacobite  agents  about  London,  had  done  an 
incalculable  mischief  to  his  cause,  and  wofuU}^  misguided  him, 
and  it  was  from  these  especially,  that  the  persons  engaged  in 
the  present  venture  were  anxious  to  defend  the  chief  actor 
in  it.* 

The  party  reached  London  by  nightfall,  leaving  their  horses 
at  the  Posting-House  over  against  Westminster,  and  being  fer- 
ried over  the  water,  where  Lady  Esmond's  coach  was  already 
in  waiting.  In  another  hour  we  were  all  landed  at  Kensington, 
and  the  mistress  of  the  house  had  that  satisfaction  which  her 
heart  had  3'earned  after  for  many  years,  once  more  to  embrace 
her  son,  who,  on  his  side,  with  all  his  waywardness,  ever  re- 
tained a  most  tender  affection  for  his  parent. 

She  did  not  refrain  from  this  expression  of  her  feehng, 
though  the  domestics  were  b}^,  and  my  Lord  Castlewood's  at- 
tendant stood  in  the  hall.  Esmond  had  to  whisper  to  him  in 
French  to  take  his  hat  off.  Monsieur  Baptiste  was  constantly 
neglecting  his  part  with  an  inconceivable  levity :  more  than 
once  on  the  ride  to  London,  little  observations  of  the  stranger, 
light  remarks,  and  words  betokening  the  greatest  ignorance  of 
the  countr}'  the  Prince  came  to  govern,  had  hurt  the  suscepti- 
bility of  the  two  gentlemen  forming  his  escort ;  nor  could  either 
help  owning  in  his  secret  mind  that  the}^  would  have  had  his 
behavior  otherwise,  and  that  the  laughter  and  the  lightness,  not 
to  sa}'  license,  wdiich  characterized  his  talk,  scarce  befitted  such 
a  great  Prince,  and  such  a  solemn  occasion.  Not  but  that 
he  could  act  at  proper  times  with  spirit  and  dignit3\  He  had 
behaved,  as  we  all  knew,  in  a  ver}^  courageous  manner  on  the 
field.  Esmond  had  seen  a  copy  of  the  letter  the  Prince  had 
wTit  with  his  own  hand  when  urged  by  his  friends  in  England 
to  abjure  his  religion,  and  admired  that  manly  and  magnani- 
mous reply  by  which  he  refused  to  yield  to  the  temptation. 
Monsieur  Baptiste  took  off  his  hat,  blushing  at  the  hint  Colonel 
Esmond  ventured  to  give  him,  and  said:  — "  Tenez,  elle  est 
jolie,  la  petite  mere.  Foi  de  Chevalier !  elle  est  charmante  ; 
mais  I'autre,  qui  est  cette  nymphe,  cet  astre  qui  brille,  cette 

*  The  managers  were  the  Bishop,  who  cannot  be  hurt  by  having  his 
name  mentioned,  a  very  active  and  loyal  Nonconformist  Divine,  a  lady  in 
the  highest  favor  at  Court,  with  whom  Beatrix  Esmond  had  communica- 
tion, and  two  noblemen  of  the  greatest  rank,  and  a  member  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  who  was  implicated  in  more  transactions  than  one  in  behalf 
of  the  Stuart  family. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  369 

Diane  qui  descend  sur  nous?"  And  he  started  back,  and 
pushed  forward,  as  Beatrix  was  descending  the  stair.  She 
was  in  colors  for  the  first  time  at  her  own  house  ;  she  wore  the 
diamonds  P^smond  gave  her  ;  it  had  been  agreed  between  them, 
that  she  should  wear  these  brilliants  on  the  da}'  when  the  King 
should  enter  the  house,  and  a  Queen  she  looked,  radiant  in 
charms,  and  magnificent  and  imperial  in  beauty. 

Castlewood  himself  was  startled  by  that  beauty  and  splen- 
dor ;  he  stepped  back  and  gazed  at  his  sister  as  though  he  had 
not  been  aware  before  (nor  was  he  very  likely)  how  perfectly 
lovel}'  she  was,  and  I  thought  blushed  as  he  embraced  her. 
The  Prince  could  not  keep  his  eyes  off  her ;  he  quite  forgot  his 
menial  part,  though  he  had  been  schooled  to  it,  and  a  little 
light  portmanteau  prepared  expressly  that  he  should  carry  it. 
He  pressed  forward  before  my  Lord  Viscount.  'Twas  lucky  the 
servants'  eyes  were  bus}'  in  other  directions,  or  they  must  have 
seen  that  Ihis  was  no  servant,  or  at  least  a  very  insolent  and 
rude  one. 

Again  Colonel  Esmond  was  obliged  to  cry  out,  "Baptiste," 
in  a  loud  imperious  voice,  "  have  a  care  to  the  valise  ; "  at 
which  hint  the  wilful  young  man  ground  his  teeth  together  with 
something  very  like  a  curse  between  them,  and  then  gave  a 
brief  look  of  anything  but  pleasure  to  his  Mentor.  Being  re- 
minded, however,  he  shouldered  the  little  portmanteau,  and 
carried  it  up  the  stair,  Esmond  preceding  him,  and  a  servant 
with  lighted  tapers.  He  flung  down  his  burden  sulkily  in  the 
bedchamber:  —  "A  Prince  that  will  wear  a  crown  must  wear 
a  mask,"  says  Mr.  Esmond  in  French. 

"  Ah  peste  !  I  see  how  it  is,"  says  Monsieur  Baptiste,  con- 
tinuing the  talk  in  French.  "  The  Great  Serious  is  seriously  " 
—  "alarmed  for  Monsieur  Baptiste,"  broke  in  the  Colonel. 
Esmond  neither  liked  the  tone  with  which  the  Prince  spoke  of 
the  ladies,  nor  the  eyes  with  which  he  regarded  them. 

The  bedchamber  and  the  two  rooms  adjoining  it,  the  closet 
and  the  apartment  which  was  to  be  called  my  lord's  parlor, 
were  already  lighted  and  awaiting  their  occupier ;  and  the  col- 
lation laid  for  my  lord's  supper.  Lord  Castlewood  and  his 
mother  and  sister  came  up  the  stair  a  minute  afterwards,  and, 
so  soon  as  the  domestics  had  quitted  the  apartment,  Castlewood 
and  Esmond  uncovered,  and  the  two  ladies  went  down  on  their 
knees  before  the  Prince,  who  graciously  gave  a  hand  to  each. 
He  looked  his  part  of  Prince  much  more  naturally  than  that  of 
servant,  which  he  had  just  been  trying,  and  raised  them  both 
with  a  great  deal  of  nobility,  as  well  as  kindness  in  his  air. 

24 


370  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

*'  Madam,"  sa3's  he,  "  m}^  mother  will  thank  3'Our  ladyship  for 
your  hospitality  to  her  son  ;  for  you,  madam,"  turning  to 
Beatrix,  "'I  cannot  bear  to  see  so  much  beauty  in  such  a 
posture.  Y^ou  will  betray  Monsieur  Baptiste  if  you  kneel  to 
him  ;  sure  'tis  his  place  rather  to  kneel  to  3'ou." 

A  light  shone  out  of  her  eyes  ;  a  gleam  bright  enough  to 
kindle  passion  in  any  breast.  There  were  times  when  this 
creature  was  so  handsome,  that  she  seemed,  as  it  were,  like 
Venus  revealing  herself  a  goddess  in  a  flash  of  brightness. 
She  appeared  so  now ;  radiant,  and  with  eyes  bright  with  a 
wonderful  lustre.  A  pang,  as  of  rage  and  jealousy,  shot 
through  Esmond's  heart,  as  he  caught  the  look  she  gave  the 
Prince  ;  and  he  clenched  his  hand  involuntarily  and  looked 
across  to  Castlewood,  whose  eyes  answered  his  alarm-signal, 
and  were  also  on  the  alert.  The  Prince  gave  his  subjects  an 
audience  of  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the  two  ladies  and  Colonel 
Esmond  quitted  the  chamber.  Lad\^  Castlewood  pressed  his 
hand  as  the}^  descended  the  stair,  and  the  three  went  down  to 
the  lower  rooms,  where  they  waited  awhile  till  the  travellers 
above  should  be  refreshed  and  read^^  for  their  meal. 

Esmond  looked  at  Beatrix,  blazing  with  her  jewels  on  her 
beautiful  neck.  ''I  have  kept  my  word,"  saj's  he:  "And  I 
mine,"  says  Beatrix,  looking  down  on  the  diamonds. 

"Were  I  the  Mogul  Emperor,"  says  the  Colonel,  '*you 
should  have  all  that  were  dug  out  of  Golconda." 

"These  are  a  great  deal  too  good  for  me,"  ssivs  Beatrix, 
dropping  her  head  on  her  beautiful  breast,  —  "so  are  3'ou  all, 
all !  "  And  when  she  looked  up  again,  as  she  did  in  a  moment, 
and  after  a  sigh,  her  eyes,  as  they  gazed  at  her  cousin,  wore 
that  melanchol}^  and  inscrutable  look  which  'twas  always  im- 
possible to  sound. 

When  the  time  came  for  the  supper,  of  which  we  were 
advertised  b}^  a  knocking  overhead.  Colonel  Esmond  and  the 
two  ladies  went  to  the  upper  apartment,  where  the  Prince 
already  was,  and  by  his  side  the  3'oung  Viscount,  of  exactly 
the  same  age,  shape,  and  with  features  not  dissimilar,  though 
Frank's  were  the  handsomer  of  the  two.  The  Prince  sat  down 
and  bade  the  ladies  sit.  The  gentlemen  remained  standing: 
there  was,  indeed,  but  one  more  cover  laid  at  the  table :  — 
"  Which  of  3'ou  will  take  it?  "  says  he. 

"The  head  of  our  house,"  sa3^s  Lady  Castlewood,  taking 
her  son's  hand,  and  looking  towards  Colonel  Esmond  with  a 
bow  and  a  great  tremor  of  the  voice  ;  "  the  Marquis  of  Esmond 
will  have  the  honor  of  serving  the  King." 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  371 

"  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  waiting  on  his  Royal  Highness," 
saj'S  Colonel  Esmond,  filling  a  cup  of  wine,  and,  as  the  fashion 
of  that  day  was,  he  presented  it  to  the  King  on  his  knee. 

"  I  drink  to  my  hostess  and  her  family,"  sa3'S  the  Prince, 
with  no  very  weU-pleased  air ;  but  the  cloud  passed  immedi- 
ateh^off  his  face,  and  he  talked  to  the  ladies  in  a  lively,  rattling 
strain,  quite  undisturbed  by  poor  Mr.  Esmond's  yellow  coun- 
tenance, that,  I  dare  say,  looked  ver^^  glum. 

When  the  time  came  to  take  leave,  Esmond  marched  home- 
wards to  his  lodgings,  and  met  Mr.  Addison  on  the  road  that 
night,  walking  to  a  cottage  he  had  at  Fulham,  the  moon  shining 
on  his  handsome  serene  face  :  —  "  What  cheer,  brother?  "  sa3^s 
Addison,  laughing:  ''  I  thought  it  was  a  footpad  advancing  in 
the  dark,  and  beliold  'tis  an  old  friend.  We  may  shake  hands, 
Colonel,  in-  the  dark,  'tis  better  fhan  fighting  by  daylight. 
Why  should  we  quarrel,  because  I  am  a  Whig  and  thou  art  a 
Tory?  Turn  tli}^  steps  and  walk  with  me  to  Fulham,  where 
there  is  a  nightingale  still  singing  in  the  garden,  and  a  cool 
bottle  in  a  cave  I  know  of;  you  shall  drink  to  the  Pretender  if 
you  like,  and  I  will  drink  m}^  liquor  my  own  wa}^ :  I  have  had 
enough  of  good  liquor?  —  no,  never!  There  is  no  such  word 
as  enough  as  a  stopper  for  good  wine.  Thou  wilt  not  come? 
Come  any  day,  come  soon.  You  know  I  remember  Simois  and 
the  Sigeia  tellus^  and  the  prcelia  mixta  mero^  mixta  mero"  he 
repeated,  with  ever  so  slight  a  touch  of  merum  in  his  voice, 
and  walked  back  a  little  way  on  the  road  with  Esmond,  bidding 
the  other  remember  he  was  always  his  friend,  and  indebted  to 
him  for  his  aid  in  the  "Campaign"  poem.  And  very  likely 
Mr.  Under-Secretary  would  have  stepped  in  and  taken  t'other 
bottle  at  the  Colonel's  lodging,  had  the  latter  invited  him,  but 
Esmond's  mood  was  none  of  the  gaj^est,  and  he  bade  his  friend 
an  inhospitable  good-night  at  the  door. 

"  I  have  done  the  deed,"  thought  he,  sleepless,  and  looking 
out  into  the  night;  "he  is  here,  and  I  have  brought  him  ;  he 
and  Beatrix  are  sleeping  under  the  same  roof  now.  Whom  did 
I  mean  to  serve  in  bringing  him?  Was  it  tlie  Prince?  was  it 
Henry  Esmond?  Had  I  not  best  have  joined  the  manly  creed 
of  Addison  yonder,  that  scouts  the  old  doctrine  of  right  divine, 
that  boldly  declares  that  Parliament  and  people  consecrate  the 
Sovereign,  not  bishops,  nor  genealogies,  nor  oils,  nor  corona- 
tions." The  eager  gaze  of  the  young  Prince,  watching  every 
movement  of  Beatrix,  haunted  Esmond  and  pursued  him.  The 
Prince's  figure  appeared  before  him  in  his  feverish  dreams 
many  times  that  night.     He  wished  the  deed  undone  for  which 


372  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

he  had  labored  so.  He  was  not  the  first  that  has  regretted  his 
own  act,  or  brought  about  his  own  undoing.  Undoing?  Should 
he  write  that  word  in  his  late  years?  No,  on  his  knees  before 
heaven,  rather  be  thankful  for  what  then  he  deemed  his  mis- 
fortune, and  which  hath  caused  the  whole  subsequent  happiness 
of  his  life. 

Esmond's  man,  honest  John  Lockwood,  had  served  his  master 
and  the  family  all  his  life,  and  the  Colonel  knew  that  he  could 
answer  for  John's  fidelity  as  for  his  own.  John  returned  with 
the  horses  from  Rochester  betimes  the  next  morning,  and  the 
Colonel  gave  him  to  understand  that  on  going  to  Kensington, 
where  he  was  free  of  the  servants'  hall,  and  indeed  courting 
Miss  Beatrix's  maid,  he  was  to  ask  no  questions,  and  betray  no 
surprise,  but  to  vouch  stoutly  that  the  young  gentleman  he 
should  see  in  a  red  coat  there  was  my  Lord  Viscount  Castle- 
wood,  and  that  his  attendant  in  gray  was  Monsieur  Baptiste 
the  Frenchman.  He  was  to  tell  his  friends  in  the  kitchen  such 
stories  as  he  remembered  of  my  Lord  Viscount's  3'outh  at  Castle- 
wood  ;  what  a  wild  boy  he  was  ;  how  he  used  to  drill  Jack  and 
cane  him,  before  ever  he  was  a  soldier ;  everything,  in  fine,  he 
knew  respecting  m}'  Lord  Viscount's  early  da3's.  Jack's  ideas 
of  painting  had  not  been  much  cultivated  during  his  residence 
in  Flanders  with  his  master ;  and,  before  m}^  young  lord's  re- 
turn, he  had  been  easil}'  got  to  believe  that  the  picture  brought 
over  from  Paris,  and  now  hanging  in  Itady  Castlewood's  draw- 
ing-room, was  a  perfect  likeness  of  her  son,  the  3^oung  lord. 
And  the  domestics  having  all  seen  the  picture  many  times,  and 
catdiing  but  a  momentary  imperfect  glimpse  of  the  two  stran- 
gers on  the  night  of  their  arrival,  never  had  a  reason  to  doubt 
the  fidelity  of  the  portrait ;  and  next  day,  when  they  saw  the 
original  oi'  the  piece  habited  exactly  as  he  was  represented  in 
the  painting,  with  the  same  periwig,  ribbons,  and  uniform  of 
the  Guard,  quite  naturally  addressed  the  gentleman  as  my 
Lord  Castlewood,  my  Lady  Viscountess's  son. 

The  secretary  of  the  night  previous  was  now  the  viscount ; 
the  viscount  wore  the  secretary's  gray  frock ;  and  John  Lock- 
wood  was  instructed  to  hint  to  the  world  below  stairs  that  my 
lord  being  a  Papist,  and  very  devout  in  that  religion,  his  at- 
tendant might  be  no  other  than  his  chaplain  from  Bruxelles ; 
h.ence,  if  he  took  his  meals  in  my  lord's  company  there  was 
little  reason  for  surprise.  Frank  was  further  cautioned  to 
speak  English  with  a  foreign  accent,  which  task  he  performed 
indifferently  well,  and  this  caution  was  the  more  necessary  be- 
cause the  Prince  himself  scarce  spoke  our  language  like  a  native 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  373 

of  the  island :  and  John  Lockwood  laughed  with  the  folks 
below  stairs  at  the  manner  in  which  my  lord,  after  five  years 
abroad,  sometimes  forgot  his  own  tongue,  and  spoke  it  like  a 
Frenchman.  ''I  warrant,"  says  he,  "that  with  the  English 
beef  and  beer,  his  lordship  will  soon  get  back  the  proper  use  of 
his  mouth  ;  "  and,  to  do  his  new  lordship  justice,  he  took  to 
beer  and  beef  ver}'  kindly. 

The  Prince  drank  so  much,  and  was  so  loud  and  imprudent 
in  his  talk  after  his  drink,  that  Esmond  often  trembled  for  him. 
His  meals  were  served  as  much  as  possible  in  his  own  chamber, 
though  frequently  he  made  his  appearance  in  Lady  Castlewood's 
parlor  and  drawing-room,  calling  Beatrix  "sister,"  and  her 
ladj'ship  "mother,"  or  "madam"  before  the  servants.  And, 
choosing  to  act  entirely  up  to  the  part  of  brother  and  son,  the 
Prince  sometimes  saluted  Mrs.  Beatrix  and  Lady  Castlewood 
with  a  freedom  which  his  secretary  did  not  like,  and  which,  for 
his  part,  set  Colonel  Esmond  tearing  with  rage. 

The  guests  had  not  been  three  days  in  the  house  when  poor 
Jack  Lockwood  came  with  a  rueful  countenance  to  his  master,  and 
said  :  "  My  Lord  —  that  is  the  gentleman  —  has  been  tamper- 
ing with  Mrs.  Lucy  (Jack's  sweetheart),  and  given  her  guineas 
and  a  kiss."  I  fear  that  Colonel  Esmond's  mind  was  rather 
relieved  than  otherwise  when  he  found  that  the  ancillary  beauty 
was  the  one  whom  the  Prince  had  selected.  His  royal  tastes 
were  known  to  he  that  way,  and  continued  so  in  after  life. 
The  heir  of  one  of  the  greatest  names,  of  the  greatest  kingdoms, 
and  of  the  greatest  misfortunes  in  Europe,  was  often  content  to 
lay  the  dignity  of  his  birth  and  grief  at  the  wooden  shoes  of  a 
French  chambermaid,  and  to  repent  afterwards  (for  he  was 
ver}'  devout)  in  ashes  taken  from  the  dust-pan.  'Tis  for  mor- 
tals such  as  these  that  nations  suffer,  that  parties  struggle,  that 
warriors  fight  and  bleed.  A  year  afterwards  gallant  heads  were 
falling,  and  Nithsdale  in  escape,  and  Derwentwater  on  the 
scaflfold ;  whilst  the  heedless  ingrate,  for  whom  the}'  risked 
and  lost  all,  was  tippling  with  his  seraglio  of  mistresses  in  his 
petite,  maisoji  of  Chaillot. 

Blushing  to  be  forced  to  bear  such  an  errand,  Esmond  had 
to  go  to  the  Prince  and  warn  him  that  the  girl  whom  his  High- 
ness was  bribing  was  John  Lockwood's  sweetheart,  an  honest 
resolute  man,  who  had  served  in  six  campaigns,  and  feared 
nothing,  and  who  knew  that  the  person  calling  himself  Lord 
Castkwood  was  not  his  young  master ;  and  the  Colonel  be- 
sought the  Prince  to  consider  what  the  effect  of  a  single  man's 
jealous}^  might  be,  and  to  think  of  other  designs  he  had  in 


374  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOIS'D. 

hand,  more  important  than  the  seduction  of  a  waiting-maid, 
and  the  humiliation  of  a  brave  man. 

Ten  times,  perhaps,  in  the  course  of  as  many  da3's,  Mr.  Es- 
mond had  to  warn  the  royal  young  adventurer  of  some  impru- 
dence or  some  freedom.  He  received  these  remonstrances  very 
testily,  save  perhaps  in  this  affair  of  poor  Lockwood's,  when  he 
deigned  to  burst  out  a-laughing,  and  said,  "  What !  the  souhrette 
has  peached  to  the  amoureux^  and  Crispin  is  angr3%  and  Crispin 
has  served,  and  Crispin  has  been  a  corporal,  has  he?  Tell  him 
we  will  reward  his  valor  with  a  pair  of  colors,  and  recompense 
his  lidehty." 

Colonel  Esmond  ventured  to  utter  sqme  other  words  of  en- 
treaty, but  the  Prince,  stamping  imperiously,  cried  out,  "  Assez, 
milord  :  je  m'ennuye  a  la  preche  ;  I  am  not  come  to  London  to 
go  to  the  sermon."  And  he  complained  afterwards  to  Castle- 
w^ood,  that  "  le  petit  jaune,  le  noir  Colonel,  le  Marquis  Misan- 
thrope" (by  which  facetious  names  his  Roj^al  Highness  was 
pleased  to  designate  Colonel  Esmond),  "•  fatigued  him  with  his 
grand  airs  and  virtuous  homilies." 

The  Bishop  of  Rochester,  and  other  gentlemen  engaged  in 
the  transaction  which  had  brought  the  Prince  over,  waited  upon 
his  Royal  Highness,  constantl}^  asking  for  m^'  Lord  Castlewood 
on  their  arrival  at  Kensington,  and  being  openly  conducted  to 
his  Royal  Highness  in  that  character,  who  received  them  either 
in  my  lady's  drawing-room  below,  or  above  in  his  own  apart- 
ment ;  and  all  implored  him  to  quit  the  house  as  little  as  possi- 
ble, and  to  wait  there  till  the  signal  should  be  given  for  him 
to  appear.  The  ladies  entertained  him  at  cards,  over  which 
amusement  he  spent  many  hours  in  each  day  and  night.  He 
passed  many  hours  more  in  drinking,  during  which  time  he 
would  rattle"^  and  talk  very  agreeably,  and  especially  if  the 
Colonel  was  absent,  whose  presence  always  seemed  to  frighten 
him;  and  the  i)oor  "  Colonel  Noir"  took  that  hint  as  a  com- 
mand accordingly,  and  seldom  intruded  his  black  face  upon 
the  convivial  hours  of  this  august  young  prisoner.  Except  for 
those  few  persons  of  whom  the  porter  had  the  list.  Lord  Castle- 
wood was  denied  to  aU  friends  of  the  house  who  waited  on  his 
lordship.  The  wound  he  had  received  had  broke  out  again 
from  his  journey  on  horseback,  so  the  world  and  the  domestics 

were  informed.     And  Doctor  A ,*  his  physician  (I  shall 

not  mention  his  name,  but  he  was  physician  to  the  Queen,  of 
the  Scots  nation,  and  a  man  remarkable  for  his  benevolence  as 

*  There  can  be  very  little  doubt  that  the  Doctor  mentioned  by  my  dear 
liather  was  the  famous  Dr.  Arbuthnot.  —  R.  E.  W. 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  375 

well  as  his  wit),  gave  orders  that  he  should  be  kept  perfectly 
quiet  until  the  wound  should  heal.  With  this  gentleman,  who 
was  one  of  the  most  active  and  influential  of  our  party,  and  the 
others  before  spoken  of,  the  whole  secret  lay ;  and  it  was  kept 
with  so  much  faithfulness,  and  the  story  we  told  so  simple  and 
natural,  that  there  was  no  likelihood  of  a  discovery  except  from 
the  imprudence  of  the  Prince  himself,  and  an  adventurous  lev- 
ity that  we  had  the  greatest  difficult}^  to  control.  As  for  Lad^^ 
Castle  wood,  although  she  scarce  spoke  a  word,  'twas  easy  to 
gather  from  her  demeanor,  and  one  or  two  hints  she  dropped, 
how  deep  her  mortification  was  at  finding  the  hero  whom  she 
had  chosen  to  worship  all  her  life  (and  whose  restoration  had 
formed  almost  the  most  ssicred  part  of  her  prayers),  no  more 
than  a  man,  and  not  a  good  one.  She  thought  misfortune 
might  have  chastened  him  ;  but  that  instructress  had  rather 
rendered  him  callous  than  humble.  His  devotion,  which  was 
quite  real,  kept  him  from  no  sin  he  had  a  mind  to.  His  talk 
showed  good-humor,  gayety,  even  wit  enough  ;  but  there  was  a 
levit}'  in  his  acts  and  words  that  he  had  brought  from  among 
those  libertine  devotees  with  whom  he  had  been  bred,  and  that 
shocked  the  simplicitj"  and  purity  of  the  English  lady,  whose 
guest  he  was.  Esmond  spoke  his  mind  to  Beatrix  pretty  freely 
about  the  Prince,  getting  her  brother  to  put  in  a  word  of  warn- 
ing. Beatrix  was  entirely  of  their  opinion  ;  she  thought  he  was 
very  light,  very  light  and  reckless  ;  she  could  not  even  see  the 
good  looks  Colonel  P^smond  had  spoken  of.  The  Prince  had 
bad  teeth,  and  a  decided  squint.  How  could  we  say  he  did  not 
squint?  His  eyes  were  fine,  but  there  was  certainly  a  cast  in 
them.  She  rallied  him  at  table  with  wonderful  wit ;  she  spoke 
of  him  invariably  as  of  a  mere  bo}' ;  she  was  more  fond  of  Es- 
mond than  ever,  praised  him  to  her  brother,  praised  him  to  the 
Prince,  when  his  Royal  Highness  was  pleased  to  sneer  at  the 
Colonel,  and  warml}^  espoused  his  cause:  "And  if  3'our  Maj- 
esty does  not  give  him  the  Garter  his  father  had,  when  the 
Marquis  of  Esmond  comes  to  your  Majesty's  court,  I  will  hang 
myself  in  my  own  garters,  or  will  cry  my  e3^es  out."  "  Rather 
than  lose  those,"  says  the  Prince,  "he  shall  be  made  Arch- 
bishop and  Colonel  of  the  Guard"  (it  was  Frank  Castlewood 
who  told  me  of  this  conversation  over  their  supper) . 

"Yes,"  cries  she,  with  one  of  her  laughs  —  I  fanc}^  I  hear 
it  now.  Thirt}'  3'ears  afterwards  I  hear  that  delightful  music. 
"Yes,  he  shall  be  Archbishop  of  Esmond  and  Marquis  of 
Canterbury." 


376  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

''  And  what  will  your  ladyship  be?  "  says  the  Prince  ;  "  you 
have  but  to  choose  your  place." 

"I,"  sa3^s  Beatrix,  "will  be  mother  of  the  maids  to  the 
Queen  of  his  Majesty  King  James*  the  Third  —  Vive  le  Roy  !  " 
and  she  made  him  a  great  curtsy,  and  drank  a  part  of  a  glass 
of  wine  in  his  honor. 

"The  Prince  seized  hold  of  the  glass  and  drank  the  last 
drop  of  it,"  Castle  wood  said,  "  and  my  mother,  looking  very 
anxious,  rose  up  and  asked  leave  to  retire.  But  that  Trix  is 
my  mother's  daughter,  Harry,"  Frank  continued,  "I  don't 
know  what  a  horrid  fear  I  should  have  of  her.  I  wish  —  I  wish 
this  business  were  over.  You  are  older  than  I  am,  and  wiser, 
and  better,  and  I  owe  you  ever^^thing,  and  would  die  for  you 
—  before  George  I  would ;  but  I  wish  the  end  of  this  were 
come." 

Neither  of  us  ver}^  likely  passed  a  tranquil  night ;  horrible 
doubts  and  torments  racked  Esmond's  soul :  'twas  a  scheme  of 
personal  ambition,  a  daring  stroke  for  a  selfish  end  — he  knew 
it.  What  cared  he,  in  his  heart,  who  was  King?  Were  not 
his  very  sympathies  and  secret  convictions  on  the  other  side  — 
on  the  side  of  People,  Parliament,  Freedom?  And  here  was 
he,  engaged  for  a  Prince  that  had  scarce  heard  the  word  lib- 
erty ;  that  priests  and  women,  t3^rants  by  nature,  both  made 
a  tool  of.  The  misanthrope  was  in  no  better  humor  after  hear- 
ing that  story,  and  his  grim  face  more  black  and  yellow  than 
ever. 


CHAPTER  X. 

WE   ENTERTAIN    A   VERY   DISTINGUISHED    GUEST   AT   KENSINGTON. 

Should  any  clue  be  found  to  the  dark  intrigues  at  the  latter 
end  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  or  any  historian  be  inclined  to  fol- 
low it,  'twill  be  discovered,  I  have  little  doubt,  that  not  one  of 
the  great  personages  about  the  Queen  had  a  defined  scheme 
of  policy,  independent  of  that  private  and  selfisli  interest  which 
each  was  bent  on  pursuing :  St.  John  was  for  St.  John,  and 
Harley  for  Oxford,  and  Marlborough  for  John  Churchill, 
alwaj's ;  and  according  as  they  could  get  help  from  St.  Ger- 
mains  or  Hanover,  the}^  sent  over  proflTers  of  allegiance  to  tlie 
Princes  there,  or  betrayed  one  to  the  other :  one  cause,  or  one 
sovereign,  was  as  good  as  another  to  thein,  so  that  they  could 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  377 

hold  the  best  place  under  him  ;  and  like  Lockit  and  Peachem, 
the  Newgate  chiefs  in  the  "Rogues'  Opera,"  Mr.  Gay  wrote 
afterwards,  had  each  in  his  hand  documents  and  proofs  of  trea- 
son which  would  hang  the  other,  onl3"  he  did  not  dare  to  use 
the  weapon ,  for  fear  of  that  one  which  his  neighbor  also  carried 
in  his  pocket.  Think  of  the  great  Marlborough,  the  greatest 
subject  in  all  the  world,  a  conqueror  of  princes,  that  had 
marched  victorious  over  Germany,  Flanders,  and  France,  that 
had  given  the  law  to  sovereigns  abroad,  and  been  worshipped 
as  a  divinity  at  home,  forced  to  sneak  out  of  England  —  his 
credit,  honors,  places,  alL  taken  from  him  ;  his  friends  in  the 
army  broke  and  ruined  ;  and  flying  before  Harley,  as  abject 
and  powerless  as  a  poor  debtor  before  a  baihff  with  a  writ.  A 
paper,  of  which  Harley  got  possession,  and  showing  be3'ond 
doubt  that  the  Duke  was  engaged  with  the  Stuart  family,  was 
the  weapon  with  which  the  Treasurer  drove  Marlborough  out 
of  the  kingdom.  He  fled  to  Antwerp,  and  began  intriguing 
instantly'  on  the  other  side,  and  came  back  to  England,  as  all 
know,  a  AVhig  and  a  Hanoverian. 

Though  the  Treasurer  turned  out  of  the  arm}'  and  oflSce  every 
man,  military  or  civil,  known  to  be  the  Duke's  friend,  and  gave 
the  vacant  posts  among  the  Tor}'  party ;  he,  too,  was  playing 
the  double  game  between  Hanover  and  St.  Germains,  await- 
ing the  expected  catastrophe  of  the  Queen's  death  to  be  Master 
of  the  State,  and  ofl^er  it  to  either  family  that  should  bribe  him 
best,  or  that  the  nation  should  declare  for.  Whichever  the 
King  was,  Harley's  object  was  to  reign  over  him ;  and  to  this 
end  he  supplanted  the  former  famous  favorite,  decried  the  ac- 
tions of  the  war  which  had  made  Marlborough's  name  illustrious, 
and  disdained  no  more  than  the  great  fallen  competitor  of  his, 
the  meanest  arts,  flatteries,  intimidations,  that  would  secure  his 
power.  If  the  greatest  satirist  the  world  ever  hath  seen  had 
writ  against  Harley,  and  not  for  him,  what  a  history  had  he  left 
behind  of  the  last  years  of  Queen  Anne's  reign  !  But  Swift, 
that  scorned  all  mankind,  and  himself  not  the  least  of  all,  had 
this  merit  of  a  faithful  partisan,  that  he  loved  those  chiefs  who 
treated  him  well,  and  stuck  by  Harlej'  bravel}'  in  his  fall,  as  he 
gallantly  had  supported  him  in  his  better  fortune. 

Incomparabh' more  brilliant,  more  splendid,  eloquent,  accom- 
plished than  his  rival,  the  great  St.  John  could  be  as  selfish  as 
Oxford  was,  and  could  act  the  double  part  as  skilfully  as  ambi- 
dextrous ChurchiH.  He  whose  talk  was  always  of  liberty,  no 
more  shrunk  from  using  persecution  and  the  pillory  against  his 
opponents  than  if  he  had  been  at  Lisbon  and  Grand  Inquisitor. 


378  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

This  lofty  patriot  was  on  his  knees  at  Hanover  and  St.  Germains 
too  ;  notoriously  of  no  religion,  he  toasted  Church  and  Queen 
as  boldly  as  the  stupid  Sacheverel,  whom  he  used  and  laughed 
at ;  and  to  serve  his  turn,  and  to  overthrow  his  enemj^  he  could 
intrigue,  coax,  bully,  wheedle,  fawn  on  the  Court  favorite  and 
creep  up  the  back-stair  as  silently  as  Oxford,  who  supplanted 
Marlborough,  and  whom  he  himself  supplanted.  The  crash  of 
my  Lord  Oxford  happened  at  this  very  time  whereat  my  history 
is  now  arrived.  He  was  come  to  the  ver}'  last  days  of  his  power, 
and  the  agent  whom  he  emplo3'ed  to  overthrow  the  conqueror  of 
Blenheim,  was  now  engaged  to  upset  the  conqueror's  conqueror, 
and  hand  over  the  staff  of  government  to  Bolingbroke,  who  had 
been  panting  to  hold  it. 

In  expectation  of  the  stroke  that  was  now  preparing,  the 
Irish  regiments  in  the  French  service  were  all  brought  round 
about  Boulogne  in  Picardy,  to  pass  over  if  need  were  with  the 
Duke  of  Berwick  ;  the  soldiers  of  France  no  longer,  but  subjects 
of  James  the  Third  of  England  and  Ireland  King.  The  fidelity 
of  the  great  mass  of  the  Scots  (though  a  most  active,  resolute, 
and  gallant  Whig  part3S  admirably  and  energeticall}^  ordered 
and  disciplined,  was  known  to  be  in  Scotland  too)  was  notori- 
ously unshaken  in  their  King.  A  A^ery  great  bod}'  of  Tory 
clerg3^,  nobilit}^  and  gentr}^  were  public  partisans  of  the  exiled 
Prince  ;  and  the  indifferents  might  be  counted  on  to  cry  King 
George  or  King  James,  according  as  either  should  prevail.  The 
Queen,  especiallv  in  her  latter  da3's,  inclined  towards  her  own 
family.  The  Prince  was  l3ing  actually  in  London,  within  a 
stone's  cast  of  his  sister's  palace  ;  the  first  Minister  toppling  to 
his  fall,  and  so  tottering  that  the  weakest  push  of  a  woman's 
finger  would  send  him  down  ;  and  as  for  Bolingbroke,  his  suc- 
cessor, we  know  on  whose  side  his  power  and  his  splendid 
eloquence  would  be  on  the  day  when  the  Queen  should  appear 
openl3^  before  her  Council  and  sa3^ :  —  "  This,  m3^  lords,  is  my 
brother ;  here  is  my  father's  heir,  and  mine  after  me." 

During  the  whole  of  the  previous  year  the  Queen  had  had 
man3'  and  repeated  fits  of  sickness,  fever,  and  letharg3',  and 
her  death  had  been  constantl3'  looked  for  b3'^  all  her  attendants. 
The  Elector  of  Hanover  had  wished  to  send  his  son,  the  Duke 
of  Cambridge  —  to  pay  his  court  to  his  cousin  the  Queen,  the 
Elector  said  ;  —  in  truth,  to  be  on  the  spot  when  death  should 
close  her  career.  Frightened  perhaps  to  have  such  a  memenfA 
mori  under  her  royal  e3'es,  her  Majest3^  had  angrily  forbidden 
the  3'oung  Prince's  coming  into  England.  Either  she  desired 
to  keep  the  chances  for  her  brother  open  yet ;  or  the  people 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  379 

about  her  did  not  wish  to  close  with  the  Whig  candidate  till 
they  could  make  terms  with  him.  The  quarrels  of  her  Ministers 
before  her  face  at  the  Council  board,  the  pricks  of  conscience 
very  likely,  the  importunities  of  her  Ministers,  and  constant 
turmoil  and  agitation  round  about  her,  had  weakened  and  irri- 
tated the  Princess  extremely  ;  her  strength  was  giving  way 
under  these  continual  trials  of  her  temper,  and  from  day  to  day 
it  was  expected  she  must  come  to  a  speedy  end  of  them.  Just 
before  Viscount  Castlewood  and  his  companion  came  from 
France,  her  Majesty  was  taken  ill.  The  St.  Anthony's  fire 
broke  out  on  the  royal  legs  ;  there  was  no  hurry  for  the  presen- 
tation of  the  young  lord  at  Court,  or  that  person  who  should 
appear  under  his  name  ;  and  my  Lord  Viscount's  wound  break- 
ing out  opportunel,y,  he  was  kept  conveniently  in  his  chamber 
until  such  time  as  his  physician  would  allow  him  to  bend  his 
knee  before  the  Queen.  At  the  commencement  of  July,  that 
influential  lady,  with  whom  it  has  been  mentioned  that  our  party 
had  relations,  came  frequent^  to  visit  her  3'oung  friend,  the 
Maid  of  Honor,  at  Kensington,  and  my  Lord  Viscount  (the  real 
or  supposititious),  who  was  an  invalid  at  Lady  Castlewood's 
house. 

On  the  27th  day  of  Jul}^  the  lady  in  question,  who  held  the 
most  intimate  post  about  the  Queen,  came  in  her  chair  from 
the  Palace  hard  by,  bringing  to  the  little  party  in  Kensington 
Square  intelligence  of  the  ver}'  highest  importance.  The  final 
blow  had  been  struck,  and  my  Lord  of  Oxford  and  Mortimer 
was  no  longer  Treasurer.  The  staff'was  as  yet  given  to  no  suc- 
cessor, though  my  Lord  Bolingbroke  would  undoubtedly  be  the 
man.  And  now  the  time  was  come,  the  Queen's  Abigail  said : 
and  now  my  Lord  Castlewood  ought  to  be  presented  to  the 
Sovereign. 

After  that  scene  which  Lord  Castlewood  witnessed  and  de- 
scribed to  his  cousin,  who  passed  such  a  miserable  night  of 
mortification  and  jealousy  as  he  thought  over  the  transaction, 
no  doubt  the  three  persons  who  were  set  by  nature  as  protectors 
over  Beatrix  came  to  the  same  conclusion,  that  she  must  be 
removed  from  the  presence  of  a  man  wdiose  desires  towards  her 
were  expressed  only  too  clearly  ;  and  who  was  no  more  scrupu- 
lous in  seeking  to  gratify  them  than  his  father  had  been  before 
him.  I  suppose  Esmond's  mistress,  her  son ,  and  the  Colonel  him- 
self, had  be8n  all  secretly  debating  this  matter  in  their  minds, 
for  when  Frank  broke  out,  in  his  blunt  way,  with  :  —  "I  think 
Beatrix  had  best  be  anywhere  but  here,"  —  Lady  Castlewood 
said :  —  ''I  thank  you,  Frank,  I  have  thought  so,  too  ; "  and 


380  THE  HISTOKY   OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

Mr.  Esmond,  though  he  only  remarked  that  it  was  not  for  him 
to  speak,  showed  plainly,  by  the  dehght  on  his  countenance,  how 
very  agreeable  that  proposal  was  to  him. 

"  One  sees  that  you  think  with  us,  Henry,"  says  the  viscount- 
ess, with  ever  so  little  of  sarcasm  in  her  tone  :  "  Beatrix  is  best 
out  of  this  house  whilst  we  have  our  guest  in  it,  and  as  soon  as 
this  morning's  business  is  done,  she  ought  to  quit  London." 

"What  morning's  business?"  asked  Colonel  Esmond,  not 
knowing  what  had  been  arranged,  though  in  fact  the  stroke 
next  in  importance  to  that  of  bringing  the  Prince,  and  of  having 
him  acknowledged  by  the  Queen,  was  now  being  performed  at 
the  very  moment  we  three  were  conversing  together. 

The  Court-lady  with  whom  our  plan  was  concerted,  and  who 
was  a  chief  agent  in  it,  the  Court  physician,  and  the  Bishop  of 
Rochester,  who  were  the  other  two  most  active  participators  in 
our  plan,  had  held  many  councils  in  our  house  at  Kensington 
and  elsewhere,  as  to  the  means  best  to  be  adopted  for  present- 
ing our  3'oung  adventurer  to  his  sister  the  Queen.  The  simple 
and  easy  plan  proposed  by  Colonel  Esmond  had  been  agreed 
to  by  all  parties,  which  was  that  on  some  rather  private  day, 
when  there  were  not  mau}^  persons  about  the  Court,  the  Prince 
should  appear  there  as  my  Lord  Castlewood,  should  be  greeted 
by  his  sister  in  waiting,  and  led  by  that  other  lady  into  the 
closet  of  the  Queen.  And  according  to  her  Majesty's  health  or 
humor,  and  the  circumstances  that  might  arise  during  the  inter- 
view, it  was  to  be  left  to  the  discretion  of  those  present  at  it, 
and  to  the  Prince  himself,  whether  he  should  declare  that  it 
was  the  Queen's  own  brother,  or  the  brother  of  Beatrix  Esmond, 
who  kissed  her  Ro3'al  hand.  And  this  plan  being  determined 
on,  we  were  all  waiting  in  very  much  anxiet}^  for  the  day  and 
signal  of  execution. 

Two  mornings  after  that  supper,  it  being  the  27th  day  of 
Jul}^  the  Bishop  of  Rochester  breakfasting  with  Lady  Castle 
wood  and  her  famil3%  and  the  meal  scarce  over.  Doctor  A.'s 
coach  drove  up  to  our  house  at  Kensington,  and  the  Doctor 
appeared  amongst  the  part}^  there,  enlivening  a  rather  gloomy 
compau}' ;  for  the  mother  and  daughter  had  had  words  in  the 
morning  in  respect  to  the  transactions  of  that  supper,  and 
other  adventures  perhaps,  and  on  the  day  succeeding.  Beatrix's 
haughty  spirit  brooked  remonstrances  from  no  superior,  much 
less  from  her  mother,  the  gentlest  of  creatures,  whom  the  girl 
commanded  rather  than  obeyed.  And  feeling  she  was  wrong, 
and  that  b}^  a  thousand  coquetries  (which  she  could  no  more 
help  exercising  on  every  man  that  came  near  her,  than  the  sun 


THE  HISTOKY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  381 

can  help  shining  on  great  and  small)  she  had  provoked  the 
Prince's  dangerons  admiration,  and  allured  him  to  the  expression 
of  it,  she  was  only  the  more  wilful  and  imperious  the  more  she 
felt  her  error. 

To  this  part}^,  the  Prince  being  served  with  chocolate  in  his 
bedchamber,  where  he  lay  late,  sleeping  away  the  fumes  of  his 
wine,  the  Doctor  came,  and  by  the  urgent  and  startling  nature  of 
his  news,  dissipated  instantl}'  that  private  and  minor  unpleasan- 
try  under  which  the  famil}^  of  Castlewood  was  laboring. 

He  asked  for  the  guest ;  the  guest  was  above  in  his  own 
apartment :  he  bade  Monsieur  Baptiste  go  up  to  his  master  in- 
stantly, and  requested  that  My  Lord  Viscount  Castlewood  would 
straightwa}^  put  liis  uniform  on,  and  come  awa}^  in  the  Doctor's 
coach  now  at  the  door. 

He  then  informed  Madam  Beatrix  what  her  part  of  the 
comedy  was  to  be  :  —  "In  half  an  hour,"  sa3^s  he,  "  her  Maj- 
esty and  her  favorite  lady  will  take  the  air  in  the  Cedar-walk 
behind  the  new  Banqueting-house.  Her  Majesty  will  be  drawn 
in  a  garden-chair.  Madam  Beatrix  Esmond  and  her  brother^  my 
Lord  Viscount  Castlewood^  will  be  walking  in  the  private  garden, 
(here  is  Lady  Masham's  ke}',)  and  will  come  unawares  upon 
the  Ro3'al  party.  The  man  that  draws  the  chair  will  retire, 
and  leave  the  Queen,  the  favorite,  and  the  maid  of  honor  and 
her  brother  together  ;  Mistress  Beatrix  will  present  her  brother, 
and  then  !  — and  then,  my  Lord  Bishop  will  pray  for  the  result 
of  the  interview,  and  his  Scots  clerk  will  say  Amen  !  Quick, 
put  on  3^our  hood.  Madam  Beatrix ;  wh}'  doth  not  his  Majesty 
come  down  ?  Such  another  chance  may  not  present  itself  for 
months  again." 

tThe  Prince  was  late  and  lazy,  and  indeed  had  all  but  lost 
that  chance  through  his  indolence.  The  Queen  was  actually 
about  to  leave  the  garden  just  when  the  party  reached  it ;  the 
Doctor,  the  Bishop,  the  maid  of  honor  and  her  brother  went  off 
together  in  the  physician's  coach,  and  had  been  gone  half  an 
hour  when  Colonel  Esmond  came  to  Kensington  Square. 

The  news  of  this  errand,  on  which  Beatrix  was  gone,  of 
course  for  a  moment  put  all  thoughts  of  private  jealousy  out 
of  Colonel  Esmond's  head.  In  half  an  hour  more  the  coach 
returned  ;  the  Bishop  descended  from  it  first,  and  gave  his  arm 
to  Beatrix,  who  now  came  out.  His  lordship  went  back  into 
the  carriage  again,  and  the  maid  of  honor  entered  the  house 
alone.  We  were  all  gazing  at  her  from  the  upper  window,  trj^- 
ing  to  read  from  her  countenance  the  result  of  the  interview 
from  which  she  had  just  come. 


382  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOJ^D. 

She  came  into  the  drawing-room  in  a  great  tremor  and  very- 
pale  ;  she  asked  for  a  glass  of  water  as  her  mother  went  to 
meet  her,  and  after  drinking  that  and  putting  off  her  hood,  she 
began  to  speak :  —  "  We  may  all  hope  for  the  best,"  saj^s  she ; 
"■  it  has  cost  the  Queen  a  fit.  Her  Majesty  was  in  her  chair  in 
the  Cedar-walk,  accompanied  only  by  Lady ,  when  we  en- 
tered by  the  private  wicket  from  the  west  side  of  the  garden, 
and  turned  towards  her,  the  Doctor  following  us.  They  waited 
in  a  side  walk  hidden  b}^  the  shrubs,  as  we  advanced  towards 
the  chair.  M}^  heart  throbbed  so  I  scarce  could  speak ;  but 
my  Prince  whispered,  '  Courage,  Beatrix,'  and  marched  on  with 
a  steady  step.  His  face  was  a  little  flushed,  but  he  was  not 
afraid  of  the  danger.  He  who  fought  so  bravely  at  Malplaquet 
fears  nothing."  Esmond  and  Castlewood  looked  at  each  other 
at  this  compliment,  neither  liking  the  sound  of  it. 

''The  Prince  uncovered,"  Beatrix  continued,  "and  I  saw 
the  Queen  turning  round  to  Lady  Masham,  as  if  asking  who  these 
two  were.  Her  Majesty  looked  very  pale  and  ill,  and  then 
flushed  up ;  the  favorite  made  us  a  signal  to  advance,  and  I 
went  up,  leading  my  Prince  by  the  hand,  quite  close  to  the 
chair :  '  Your  Majesty  will  give  my  Lord  Viscount  your  hand 
to  kiss,'  says  her  lad3',  and  the  Queen  put  out  her  hand,  which 
the  Prince  kissed,  kneehng  on  his  knee,  he  who  should  kneel 
to  no  mortal  man  or  woman. 

"  '  You  have  been  long  from  England,  my  lord,'  says  the 
Queen  :  '  why  were  you  not  here  to  give  a  home  to  your  mother 
and  sister?' 

"  'I  am  come,  Madam,  to  sta}^  now,  if  the  Queen  desires 
me,'  says  the  Prince,  with  another  low  bow. 

"  'You  have  taken  a  foreign  wife,  my  lord,  and  a  foreign 
religion  ;  was  not  that  of  England  good  enough  for  you  ? ' 

"  '  In  returning  to  m}^  father's  church,'  saj's  the  Prince,  '  I 
do  not  love  my  mother  the  less,  nor  am  I  the  less  faithful  ser- 
vant of  3'our  majesty.' 

"  Here,"  says  Beatrix,  "  the  favorite  gave  me  a  little  signal 
with  her  hand  to  fall  back,  which  I  did,  though  I  died  to  hear 
what  should  pass  ;  and  whispered  something  to  the  Queen, 
which  made  her  Majesty  start  and  utter  one  or  two  words  in 
a  hurried  manner,  looking  towards  the  Prince,  and  catching 
hold  with  her  hand  of  the  arm  of  her  chair.  He  advanced  still 
nearer  towards  it ;  he  began  to  speak  very  rapidly ;  I  caught 
the  words, '  Father,  blessing,  forgiveness,' —  and  then  presently 
the  Prince  fell  on  his  knees  ;  took  from  his  breast  a  paper  he 
had  there,  handed  it  to  the  Queen,  who,  as  soon  as  she  saw 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  383 

it,  flung  up  both  her  arms  with  a  scream,  and  took  away  that 
hand  nearest  the  Prince,  and  which  he  endeavored  to  kiss. 
He  went  on  speaking  with  great  animation  of  gesture,  now 
clasping  his  hands  together  on  his  heart,  now  opening  them  as 
though  to  say :  '  I  am  here,  your  brother,  in  your  power.' 
Lad}^  Masham  ran  round  on  the  other  side  of  the  chair,  kneel- 
ing too,  and  speaking  with  great  energy.  She  clasped  the 
Queen's  hand  on  her  side,  and  picked  up  the  paper  her  Majesty 
had  let  fall.  The  Prince  rose  and  made  a  further  speech  as 
though  he  would  go ;  the  favorite  on  the  other  hand  urging 
her  mistress,  and  then,  running  back  to  the  Prince,  brought 
him  back  once  more  close  to.  the  chair.  Again  he  knelt  down 
and  took  "the  Queen's  hand,  which  she  did  not  withdraw,  kiss- 
ing it  a  hundred  times  ;  my  lady  all  the  time,  with  sobs  and  sup- 
phcations,  speaking  over  the  chair.  This  while  the  Queen  sat 
with  a  stupefied  look,  crumpling  the  paper  with  one  hand,  as 
my  Prince  embraced  the  other ;  then  of  a  sudden  she  uttered 
several  piercing  shrieks,  and  burst  into  a  great  fit  of  h3'steric 
tears  and  laughter.  '  Enough,  enough,  sir,  for  this  time,'  I 
heard  Lad}'  Masham  say :  and  the  chairman,  who  had  with- 
drawn round  the  Banqueting-room,  came  back,  alarmed  by 
the  cries.  'Quick,'  says  Lady  Masham,  'get  some  help,'  and 
I  ran  towards  the  Doctor,  who,  with  the  Bishop  of  Rochester, 
came  up  instantly.  Lady  Masham  whispered  the  Prince  he 
might  hope  for  the  very  best ;  and  to  be  ready  to-morrow  ;  and 
he  hath  gone  away  to  the  Bishop  of  Rochester's  house,  to  meet 
several  of  his  friends  there.  And  so  the  great  stroke  is  struck," 
says  Beatrix,  going  down  on  her  knees,  and  clasping  her  hands. 
"God  save  the  King  :  God  save  the  King  !  " 

Beatrix's  tale  told,  and  the  .young  lady  herself  calmed  some- 
what of  her  agitation,  we  asked  with  regard  to  the  Prince,  who 
was  absent  with  Bishop  Atterbury,  and  were  informed  that 
'twas  likeh'  he  might  remain  abroad  the  whole  day.  Bea- 
trix's three  kinsfolk  looked  at  one  another  at  this  intelligence : 
'twas  clear  the  same  thought  was  passing  through  the  minds 
of  all. 

But  who  should  begin  to  break  the  news  ?  Monsieur  Bap- 
tiste,  that  is  Frank  Castlewood,  turned  very  red,  and  looked 
towards  Esmond  ;  the  Colonel  bit  his  lips,  and  fairly  beat  a 
retreat  into  the  window :  it  was  Lady  Castlewood  that  opened 
upon  Beatrix  with  the  news  which  we  knew  would  do  anything 
but  please  her. 

"  We  are  glad,"  saj^s  she,  taking  her  daughter's  hand,  and 
speaking  in  a  gentle  voice,  "  that  the  guest  is  away." 


384  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

Beatrix  drew  back  in  an  instant,  looking  round  her  at  ns 
three,  and  as  if  divining  a  danger.  ''Why  glad?"  sa3^s  she, 
her  breast  beginning  to  heave;  "are  you  so  soon  tired  of 
him?" 

"We  think  one  of  us  is  devilishly  too  fond  of  him,"  cries 
out  Frank  Castlewood. 

"And  which  is  it  —  3'ou,  my  lord,  or  is  it  mamma,  who  is 
jealous  because  he  drinks  my  health?  or  is  it  the  head  of 
the  family "  (here  she  turned  with  an  imperious  look  towards 
Colonel  Esmond) ,  ' '  who  has  taken  of  late  to  preach  the  King 
sermons?" 

"We  do  not  say  j^ou  are  too  free  with  his  Majesty." 

"I  thank  you,  madam,"  says  Beatrix,  with  a  toss  of  the 
head  and  a  curtse3^ 

But  her  mother  continued,  with  verj^  great  calmness  and 
dignity  —  "At  least  we  have  not  said  so,  though  we  might, 
were  it  possible  for  a  mother  to  say  such  words  to  her  own 
daughter,  your  father's  daughter." 

'■'  Uh?  mon  pere,''  breaks  out  Beatrix,  "  was  no  better  than 
other  persons'  fathers."  And  again  she  looked  towards  the 
Colonel. 

We  all  felt  a  shock  as  she  uttered  those  two  or  three  French 
words  ;  her  manner  was  exactly  imitated  from  that  of  our  for- 
eign guest. 

' '  You  had  not  learned  to  speak  French  a  month  ago,  Bea- 
trix," says  her  mother,  sadly,  "nor  to  speak  ill  of  your  fa- 
ther." 

Beatrix,  no  doubt,  saw  that  slip  she  had  made  in  her  flurry, 
for  she  blushed  crimson :  "I  have  learnt  to  honor  the  King,'* 
says  she,  drawing  up,  "  and  'twere  as  well  that  others  suspected 
neither  his  Majest}'  nor  me." 

"  If  you  respected  3^our  mother  a  little  more,"  Frank  said, 
"  Trix,  ,you  would  do  yourself  no  hurt." 

"lam  no  child,"  sa3^s  she,  turning  round  on  him;  "we 
have  lived  verj"^  well  these  five  j^ears  without  the  benefit  of  .your 
advice  or  example,  and  I  intend  to  take  neither  now.  Why 
does  not  the  head  of  the  hbuse  speak?  "  she  went  on  ;  "  he  rules 
ever3'thing  here.  When  his  chaplain  has  done  singing  the 
psalms,  will  his  lordship  deliver  the  sermon?  I  am  tired  of  the 
psalms."  The  Prince  had  used  almost  the  very  same  words  in 
regard  to  Colonel  J^smond  that  the  imprudent  girl  repeated  in 
her  wrath. 

"  You  show  3^ourself  a  ver3^  apt  scholar,  madam,"  says  the 
Colonel ;  and,  turning  to  his  mistress,  "  Did  your  guest  use  these 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  385 

?vorcls  in  your  lacljship's  hearing,  or  was  it  to  Beatrix  in  private 
that  he  was  pleased  to  impart  his  opinion  regarding  my  tire- 
some sermon?" 

''Have  you  seen  him  alone?"  cries  my  lord,  starting  up 
with  an  oath  :   "  b}"  God,  have  3^ou  seen  him  alone?" 

"'  Were  he  here,  you  wouldn't  dare  so  to  insult  me  ;  no,  you 
would  not  dare  !  "  cries  Frank's  sister.  ''  Keep  your  oaths,  mi- 
lord, for  your  wife  ;  we  are  not  used  here  to  such  language.  Till 
you  came,  there  used  to  be  kindness  between  me  and  mamma, 
and  1  cared  for  her  when  3-ou  never  did,  when  you  were  away 
for  years  with  your  horses  and  j^our  mistress,  and  your  Popish 
wife." 

"  By  — — ,"  says  my  lord,  rapping  out  another  oath,  "  Clo- 
tilda is  an  angel ;  how  dare  you  say  a  word  against  Clotilda?  " 

Colonel  Esmond  could  not  refrain  from  a  smile,  to  see  how 
eas}'  Frank's  attack  was  drawn  off  by  that  feint:  —  "I  fancy 
Clotilda  is  not  the  subject  in  hand,"  sa3's  Mr.  Esmond,  rather 
scornfuU}^ ;  "  her  ladyship  is  at  Paris,  a  hundred  leagues  off, 
preparing  bab3^-linen.  It  is  about  my  Lord  Castlewood's  sister, 
and  not  his  wife,  the  question  is." 

"He  is  not  my  Lord  Castlewood,"  savs  Beatrix,  "and  he 
knows  he  is  not ;  he  is  Colonel  Francis  Esmond's  son,  and  no 
more,  and  he  wears  a  false  title  ;  and  he  lives  on  another  man's 
land,  and  he  knows  it."  Here  was  another  desperate  sally  of 
the  poor  beleaguered  garrison,  and  an  alerte  in  another  quarter. 
"  Again,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Esmond.  "  If  there  are  no 
proofs  of  my  claim,  I  have  no  claim.  If  my  father  acknowl- 
edged no  heir,  3'ours  was  his  lawful  successor,  and  m3^  Lord 
Castlewood  hath  as  good  a  right  to  his  rank  and  small  estate 
as  any  man  in  England.  But  that  again  is  not  the  question, 
as  you  know  very  well ;  let  us  bring  our  talk  back  to  it,  as 
you  will  have  me  meddle  in  it.  And  I  will  give  you  frankly 
my  opinion,  that  a  house  where  a  Prince  lies  all  day,  who 
respects  no  woman,  is  no  house  for  a  3^oung  unmarried  lady ; 
that  you  were  better  in  the  country  than  here  ;  that  he  is  here 
on  a  great  end,  from  which  no  folly  should  divert  him ;  and 
that  having  nobly  done  your  part  of  this  morning,  Beatrix,  3^ou 
should  retire  off  the  scene  awhile,  and  leave  it  to  the  other 
actors  of  the  play." 

As  the  Colonel  spoke  with  a  perfect  calmness  and  politeness, 
such  as  'tis  to  be  hoped  he  hath  always  shown  to  women,*  his 

*  My  dear  father  saith  quite  truly,  that  his  manner  towards  our  sex 
was  uniformly  courteous.  From  my  infancy  upwards,  he  treated  me  with 
an  extreme  gentleness,  as  though  I  was  a  little  lady.     I  can  scarce  re- 

25 


386  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

mistress  stood  b}-  him  on  one  side  of  the  table,  and  Frank 
Castlewood  on  the  other,  hemming  in  poor  Beatrix,  that  was 
behind  it,  and,  as  it  were,  surrounding  her  with  our  approaches. 

Having  twice  sallied  out  and  been  beaten  back,  she  now,  as 
I  expected,  tried  the  ultima  ratio  of  women,  and  had  recourse 
to  tears.  Her  beautiful  e^'es  filled  with  them  ;  I  never  could 
bear  in  her,  nor  in  any  woman,  that  expression  of  pain  :  —  "I 
am  alone,"  sobbed  she;  "you  are  three  against  me  —  my 
brother,  my  mother,  and  you.  What  have  1  done,  that  you 
shoukl  speak  and  look  so  unkindly  at  me?  Is  it  my  fault  that 
the  Prince  should,  as  you  say,  admire  me?  Did  I  bring  him 
here?  Did  I  do  aught  but  what  you  bade  me,  in  making  him 
welcome?  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  our  duty  was  to  die  for 
him?  Did  you  not  teach  me,  mother,  night  and  morning  to 
pray  for  the  King,  before  even  ourselves?  What  would  you 
have  of  me,  cousin,  for  you  are  the  chief  of  the  conspiracy 
against  me;  I  know  you  are,  sir,  and  that  my  mother  and 
brother  are  acting  but  as  you  bid  them  ;  whither  would  you  have 
me  go  ?  " 

"I  would  but  remove  from  the  Prince,"  says  Esmond, 
gravely,  "  a  dangerous  temptation  ;  heaven  forbid  I  should  say 
you  would  yield  ;  I  would  only  have  him  free  of  it.  Your  honor 
needs  no  guardian,  please  God,  but  his  imprudence  doth.  He 
is  so  far  removed  from  all  women  by  his  rank,  that  his  pursuit 
of  them  cannot  but  be  unlawful.  We  would  remove  the  dear- 
est and  fairest  of  our  family  from  the  chance  of  that  insult,  and 
that  is  why  we  would  have  3'ou  go,  dear  Beatrix." 

"Harry  speaks  like  a  book,"  says  Frank,  with  one  of  his 

oaths,  "and,  b}' ,  every  word  he  saith  is  true.     You  can't 

help  being  handsome,  Trix ;  no  more  can  the  Prince  help  fol- 
lowing you.  M3-  counsel  is  that  ^-ou  go  out  of  harm's  way  ;  for, 
b}'  the  Loi'd,  were  the  Prince  to  pla}-  any  tricks  with  30U,  King 
as  he  is,  or  is  to  be,  Harry  Esmond  and  I  would  have  justice  of 
him." 


member  (though  I  tried  him  often)  ever  hearing  a  rough  word  from  him, 
nor  was  he  less  grave  and  kind  in  his  manner  to  the  liuniblest  ncgresses  on 
his  estate.  He  was  familiar  witli  no  one  except  my  motlier,  and  it  was  de- 
lightful to  witness  up  to  the  very  last  days  the  confidence  between  them. 
He  was  obeyed  eagerly  by  all  under  him  ;  and  my  mother  and  all  her 
household  lived  in  a  constant  emulation  to  please  him,  and  quite  a  terror 
lest  in  any  way  they  should  offend  him.  He  was  the  humblest  man  with 
all  this  ;  the  least  exacting,  the  more  easily  contented  ;  and  Mr.  Benson,  our 
minister  at  Castlewood,  who  attended  him  at  the  last,  ever  said  —  "I  know 
not  what  Colonel  Esmond's  doctrine  was,  but  his  life  and  death  were  those 
of  a  devout  Christian."—  R.  E.  W. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  387 

*' Are  not  two  such  champions  enough  to  guard  me?"  saj's 
Beatrix,  sometliing  sorrowfully:  ''sure,  with  3'ou  two  watch- 
ing, no  evil  could  happen  to  me." 

"In  faith,  I  think  not,  Beatrix,"  says  Colonel  Esmond; 
*'  nor  if  the  Prince  knew  us  would  he  tr}'." 

"But  does  he  know  you?"  interposed  Lad3^  Castlewood, 
very  quiet :  "  he  comes  of  a  country  wliere  the  pursuit  of  kings 
is  thought  no  dishonor  to  a  woman.  Let  us  go,  dearest  Bea- 
trix. Shall  we  go  to  Walcote  or  to  Castlewood?  We  are  best 
away  from  the  citj' ;  and  when  the  Prince  is  acknowledged,  and 
our  champions  have  restored  him,  and  he  hath  his  own  house 
at  St.  James's  or  Windsor,  we  can  come  back  to  ours  here. 
Do  3^00  not  think  so,  Harry  and  Frank?" 

Frank  and  Harry  thought  with'  her,  3'ou  ma}^  be  sure. 

"We  will  go,  then,"  saj^s  Beatrix,  turning  a  little  pale; 
*'  Lady  Masham  is  to  give  me  warning  to-night  how  her  Majesty 
is,  and  ^to-morrow  —  " 

"I  think  we  had  best  go  to-day,  my  dear,"  sa^'s  m}^  Lad^' 
Castlewood;  "  we  might  have  the  coach  and  sleep  at  Houns- 
low,  and  reach  home  to-morrow.  *Tis  twelve  o'clock ;  bid  the 
coach,  cousin,  be  ready  at  one." 

"  For  shame  !  "  burst  out  Beatrix,  in  a  passion  of  tears  and 
mortification.  "  You  disgrace  me  by  3'our  cruel  precautions; 
m^^  own  mother  is  the  first  to  suspect  me,  and  would  take  me 
awa}'  as  my  gaoler.  I  will  not  go  with  you,  mother  ;  I  will  go 
as  no  one's  prisoner.  If  I  wanted  to  deceive,  do  3'ou  think  I 
could  find  no  means  of  evading  you?  My  family  suspects  me. 
As  those  mistrust  me  that  ought  to  love  me  most,  let  me  leave 
them  ;  I  will  go,  but  I  will  go  alone :  to  Castlewood,  be  it.  I 
have  been  unhappy  there  and  lonely  enough  ;  let  me  go  baok, 
but  spare  me  at  least  the  humiliation  of  setting  a  watch  over 
my  misery,  which  is  a  trial  I  can't  bear.  Let  me  go  when  you 
will,  but  alone,  or  not  at  all.  You  three  can  stay  and  triumph 
over  my  unhappiness,  and  I  will  bear  it  as  I  have  borne  it  be- 
fore. Let  my  gaoler-in-chief  go  order  the  coach  that  is  to  take 
me  away.  I  thank  3'ou,  Henry  Esmond,  for  your  share  in  the 
conspiracy.  All  my  life  long  I'll  thank  you,  and  remember 
you,  and  you,  brother,  and  you,  mother,  how  shall  I  show  my 
gratitude  to  you  for  your  careful  defence  of  my  honor?  " 

She  swept  out  of  the  room  with  the  air  of  an  empress,  fling- 
ing glances  of  defiance  at  us  all,  and  leaving  us  conquerors  of 
the  field,  but  scared,  and  almost  ashamed  of  our  victory.  It 
did  indeed  seem  hard  and  cruel  that  we  three  should  have  con- 
spired the  banishment  and  humiliation  of  that  fair  creatui'e. 


388  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

We  looked  at  each  other  in  silence :  'twas  not  the  first  stroke 
by  man}'  of  our  actions  in  that  unluck}'  time,  which,  being  clone, 
we  wished  undone.  We  agreed  it  was  best  she  should  go  alone, 
speaking  stealthily  to  one  another,  and  under  our  breaths,  like 
persons  engaged  in  an  act  they  felt  ashamed  in  doing. 

In  a  half- hour,  it  might  be,  after  our  talk  she  came  back, 
her  countenance  wearing  the  same  defiant  air  which  it  had 
borne  when  she  left  us.  She  held  a  shagreen-case  in  her  hand  ; 
Esmond  knew  it  as  containing  his  diamonds  which  he  had  given 
to  her  for  her  marriage  with  Duke  Hamilton,  and  which  she 
had  worn  so  splendidl}'  on  the  inauspicious  night  of  the  Prince's 
arrival.  "I  have  brought  back,"  says  she,  "to  the  Marquis 
of  Esmond  the  present  he  deigned  to  make  me  in  days  when  he 
trusted  me  better  than  now.  I  will  never  accept  a  benefit  or 
a  kindness  from  Henr}'  Esmond  more,  and  I  give  back  these 
family  diamonds,  which  belonged  to  one  king's  mistress,  to  the 
gentleman  that  suspected  I  would  be  another.  Have  you  been 
upon  your  message  of  coach-caller,  my  Lord  Marquis?  Will 
you  send  your  valet  to  see  that  I  do  not  run  away  ?  "  We  were 
right,  yet,  by  her  manner,  she  had  put  us  all  in  the  wrong ;  we 
were  conquerors,  yet  the  honors  of  the  daj'  seemed  to  be  with 
the  poor  oppressed  girl. 

That  luckless  box  containing  the  stones  had  first  been  orna- 
mented with  a  baron's  coronet,  when  Beatrix  was  engaged  to 
the  3'oung  gentleman  from  whom  she  parted,  and  afterwards 
the  gilt  crown  of  a  duchess  figured  on  the  cover,  which  also 
poor  Beatrix  was  destined  never  to  wear.  Lady  Castlewood 
opened  the  case  mechanically  and  scarce  thinking  what  she 
did;  and  behold,  besides  the  diamonds,  Esmond's  present, 
there  lay  in  the  box  the  enamelled  miniature  of  the  late  Duke, 
which  Beatrix  had  laid  aside  with  her  mourning  when  the  King 
came  into  the  house  ;  and  which  the  poor  heedless  thing  very 
likety  had  forgotten. 

"Do  you  leave  this,  too,  Beatrix?"  says  her  mother, 
taking  the  miniature  out,  and  with  a  cruelty  she  did  not  very 
often  show ;  but  there  are  some  moments  when  the  tenderest 
women  are  cruel,  and  some  triumphs  which  angels  can't 
forego.* 

Having  delivered  this  stab.  Lady  Castlewood  was  fright- 
ened at  the  effect  of  her  blow.     It  went  to  poor  Beatrix's 

*  This  remark  shows  how  unjustly  and  contemptuousl}'-  even  the  best 
of  men  will  sometimes  judge  of  our  sex.  Lady  Castlewood  had  no  inten- 
tion of  triumphing  over  her  daughter;  but  from  a  sense  of  duty  alone 
pointed  out  her  deplorable  wrong.  —  R.  E. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  389 

heart :  she  flushed  up  and  passed  a  handkerchief  across  her 
e^-es,  and  kissed  the  muiiature,  and  put  it  into  her  bosom  :  — 
"- 1  had  forgot  it,"  says  she  ;  "  my  injury  made  me  forget  my 
grief:  my  mother  has  recalled  both  to  me.  Farewell,  mother  ; 
I  think  I  never  can  forgive  you  ;  something  hath  l^roke  between 
us  that  no  tears  nor  years  can  repair.  I  always  said  I  was 
alone;  3-0U  never  loved  me,  never  —  and  were  jealous  of  me 
from  the  time  I  sat  on  my  father's  knee.  Let  me  go  away,  the 
sooner  the  better :  I  can  bear  to  be  wdth  you  no  more." 

"Go,  child,"  says  her  mother,  still  very  stern;  "go  and 
bend  your  proud  knees  and  ask  forgiveness  ;  go,  pray  in  soli- 
tude for  humility  and  repentance.  'Tis  not  your  reproaches 
that  make  me  unhappy,  'tis  your  ha\'d  heart,  my  poor  Beatrix  ; 
may  God  soften  it,  and  teach  you  one  day  to  feel  for  your 
mother." 

If  my  mistress  was  cruel,  at  least  she  never  could  be  got 
to  own^  as  much.  Her  haughtiness  quite  overtopped  Beatrix's  ; 
and,  if  the  girl  had  a  proud  spirit,  I  very  much  fear  it  came  to 
her  by  inheritance. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

OUR   GUEST   QUITS    US    AS    NOT    BEING    HOSPITABLE    ENOUGH. 

Beatrix's  departure  took  place  within  an  hour,  her  maid 
going  with  her  in  the  post-chaise,  and  a  man  armed  on  the 
coach-box  to  prevent  any  danger  of  the  road.  Esmond  and 
Frank  thought  of  escorting  the  carriage,  but  she  indignandy 
refused  their  company,  and  another  man  was  sent  to  follow  the 
coach,  and  not  to  leave  it  till  it  had  passed  over  Hounslow 
Heath  on  the  next  day.  And  these  two  forming  the  whole  of 
Lady  Castle  wood's  male  domestics,  Mr.  Esmond's  faithful  John 
Lockwood  came  to  wait  on  his  mistress  during  their  absence, 
though  he  would  have  preferred  to  escort  Mrs.  Lucy,  his  sweet- 
heart, on  her  journej'  into  the  countr3\ 

We  had  a  gloom}^  and  silent  meal ;  it  seemed  as  if  a  dark- 
ness was  over  the  house,  since  the  bright  face  of  Beatrix  had 
been  withdrawn  from  it.  In  the  afternoon  came  a  message 
from  the  favorite  to  relieve  us  somewhat  from  this  despondency. 
"  The  Queen  hath  been  much  shaken,"  the  note  said  ;  "  she  is 
better  now,  and  all  things  w\\\  go  w^ell.  Let  w?^  Lord  Castle- 
wood  be  ready  against  w^e  send  for  him." 


390  THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

At  night  there  came  a  second  billet:  "There  hath  been  a 
great  battle  in  Council ;  Lord  Treasurer  hath  broke  his  staff, 
and  hath  fallen  never  to  rise  again  ;  no  successor  is  appointed. 

Lord  B receives  a  great  Whig  compan3'  to-night  at  Golden 

Square.  If  he  is  trimming,  others  are  true  ;  the  Queen  hath 
no  more  fits,  but  is  a-bed  now,  and  more  quiet.  Be  ready 
against  morning,  when  I  still  hope  all  will  be  well." 

The  Prince  came  home  shortly  after  the  messenger  who 
bore  this  billet  had  left  the  house.  His  Royal  Highness  was  so 
much  the  better  for  the  Bishop's  liquor,  that  to  talk  affairs  to 
him  now  was  of  little  service.  He  was  helped  to  the  Ro^'al 
bed  ;  he  called  Castlewood  familiarly  by  his  own  name  ;  he 
quite  forgot  the  part  upon  the  acting  of  which  his  crown,  his 
safety,  depended.  'Twas  lucky  that  my  Lady  Castlewood's 
servants  were  out  of  the  way,  and  onl}'  those  heard  him  who 
would  not  betray  him.  He  inquired  after  the  adorable  Bea- 
trix, with  a  royal  hiccup  in  his  A^oice  ;  he  was  easil}'  got  to  bed, 
and  in  a  minute  or  two  plunged  in  that  deep  slumber  and  for- 
getfulness  with  which  Bacchus  rewards  the  votaries  of  that  god. 
We  wished  Beatrix  had  been  there  to  see  him  in  his  cups.  We 
regretted,  perhaps,  that  she  was  gone. 

One  of  the  party  at  Kensington  Square  was  fool  enough  to 
ride  to  Hounslow  that  night,  coram  latronihus^  and  to  the  inn 
which  the  famil}^  used  ordinaril}-  in  their  journe3'S  out  of  London. 
Esmond  desired  my  landlord  not  to  acquaint  Madam  Beatrix 
with  his  coming,  and  had  the  grim  satisfaction  of  passing  b}' 
the  door  of  the  chamber  where  she  lay  with  her  maid,  and  of 
watching  her  chariot  set  forth  in  the  earl^'  morning.  He  saw 
her  smile  and  shp  mone}^  into  the  man's  hand  who  was  ordered 
to  ride  behind  the  coach  as  far  as  Bagshot.  The  road  being 
open,  and  the  other  servant  armed,  it  appeared  she  dispensed 
with  the  escort  of  a  second  domestic ;  and  this  fellow,  bidding 
his  young  mistress  adieu  with  many  bows,  went  and  took  a 
pot  of  ale  in  the  kitchen,  and  returned  in  company  with  his 
brother  servant,  John  Coachman,  and  his  horses,  back  to 
London. 

They  were  not  a  mile  out  of  Hounslow  when  the  two  worthies 
stopped  for  more  drink,  and  here  the}'  were  scared  b}^  seeing 
Colonel  Esmond  gallop  b}^  them.  The  man  said  in  reply  to 
Colonel  Esmond's  stern  question,  that  his  3'oung  mistress  had 
sent  her  duty ;  only  that,  no  other  message  :  she  had  had  a 
ver}^  good  night,  and  would  reach  Castlewood  hy  nightfall. 
The  Colonel  had  no  time  for  further  colloquy,  and  galloped  on 
swiftl}^  to  London,  having  business  of  great  importance  there, 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  391 

as  my  reader  very  well  knoweth.  The  thought  of  Beatrix  riding 
away  from  the  danger  soothed  his  mind  not  a  little.  His  horse 
was  at  Kensington  Square  (honest  Dapple  knew  the  way  thither 
well  enough)  before  the  tipsy  guest  of  last  night  was  awake 
and  sober. 

The  account  of  the  previous  evening  was  known  all  over  the 
town  earl}'  next  day.  A  violent  altercation  had  taken  place 
before  the  Queen  in  the  Council  Chamber ;  and  all  the  coffee- 
houses had  their  version  of  the  quarrel.  The  news  brought  my 
Lord  Bishop  earl}'  to  Kensington  Square,  where  he  awaited  the 
waking  of  his  Royal  master  above  stairs,  and  spoke  confi- 
dentl}'  of  having  him  proclaimed  as  Prince  of  Wales  and  heir 
to  the  throne  before  that  day  was  over.  The  Bishop  had  enter- 
tained on  the  previous  afternoon  certain  of  the  most  influential 
gentlemen  of  tlie  true  British  party.  His  Rojal  Highness  had 
charmed  all,  both  Scots  and  English,  Papists  and  Churchmen  : 
"  Even  Quakers,"  sa3's  he,  "  were  at  our  meeting  ;  and,  if  the 
stranger  toolv  a  little  too  much  British  punch  and  ale,  he  will 
soon  grow  more  accustomed  to  those  liquors  ;  and  my  Lord 
Castle  wood,"  says  the  Bishop  witli  a  laugh,  '•'must  bear  the 
cruel  charge  of  having  been  for  once  in  his  life  a  little  tipsy. 
He  toasted  your  lovely  sister  a  dozen  times,  at  which  we  all 
laughed,"  says  the  Bishop,  "admiring  so  much  fraternal  affec- 
tion.—  Where  is  that  charming  nymph,  and  why  doth  she  not 
adorn  3^our  lad^yship's  tea-table  with  her  bright  eyes?" 

Her  ladyship  said,  dryly,  that  Beatrix  was  not  at  home  that 
morning ;  my  Lord  Bishop  was  too  bL\sy  with  great  affairs  to 
trouble  himself  much  about  the  presence  or  absence  of  an}'  lad}', 
however  beautiful. 

We  were  yet  at  table  when  Dr.  A came  from  the  Palace 

with  a  look  of  great  alarm  ;  the  shocks  the  Queen  had  had  the 
day  before  had  acted  on  her  severely ;  he  had  been  sent  for, 
and  had  ordered  her  to  be  blooded.  The  surgeon  of  Long  Acre 
had  come  to  cup  the  Queen,  and  her  Majesty  was  now  more 
easy  and  breathed  more  freely.  What  made  us  start  at  the 
name  of  Mr.  Ayme?  "II  faut  etre  aimable  pour  etre  aime," 
says  the  merry  Doctor;  Esmond  pulled  his  sleeve,  and  bade 
him  hush.  It  was  to  Ayme's  house,  after  his  fatal  duel,  that 
my  dear  Lord  Castlewood,  Frank's  father,  had  been  carried 
to  die. 

No  second  visit  could  be  paid  to  the  Queen  on  that  day  at 
any  rate  ;  and  when  our  guest  above  gave  his  signal  that  he 
was  awake,  the  Doctor,  the  Bishop,  and  Colonel  P2smond  waited 
upon  the  Prince's  levee,  and  brought  him  their  news,  cheerful 


392  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

or  dubious.  The  Doctor  had  to  go  awa}-  presentlj^,  but  prom- 
ised to  keep  the  Prince  constantly'  acquainted  with  what  was 
taking  place  at  the  Palace  hard  b3\  His  counsel  was,  and  the 
Bishop's,  that  as  soon  as  ever  the  Queen's  malady  took  a  favor- 
able turn,  the  Prince  should  be  introduced  to  her  bedside ;  th'B 
Council  summoned  ;  the  guard  at  Kensington  and  St.  James's, 
of  which  two  regiments  were  to  be  entirely  relied  on,  and  one 
known  not  to  be  hostile,  would  declare  for  the  Prince,  as  the 
Queen  would  before  the  Lords  of  her  Council,  designating  hira 
as  the  heir  to  her  throne. 

With  locked  doors,  and  Colonel  Esmond  acting  as  secretary, 
the  Prince  and  his  Lordship  of  Rochester  passed  many  hours 
of  this  day,  composing  Proclamations  and  Addresses  to  the 
Country,  to  the  Scots,  to  the  Clergy,  to  the  People  of  London 
and  England  ;  announcing  the  arrival  of  the  exile  descendant 
of  three  sovereigns,  and  his  acknowledgment  by  his  sister  as 
heir  to  the  throne.  Every  safeguard  for  their  liberties,  the 
Church  and  People  could  ask,  was  promised  to  them.  The 
Bishop  could  answer  for  the  adhesion  of  very  man}-  prelates, 
who  besought  of  their  flocks  and  brother  ecclesiastics  to  recog- 
nize the  sacred  right  of  the  future  sovereign,  and  to  purge  the 
countr}^  of  the  sin  of  rebellion. 

During  the  composition  of  these  papers,  more  messengers 
than  one  came  from  the  Palace  regarding  the  state  of  the  august 
patient  there  lying.  At  mid-day  she  was  somewhat  better ;  at 
evening  the  torpor  again  seized  her,  and  she  wandered  in  her 

mind.     At  night  Dr.  A was  with  us  again,  with  a  report 

rather  more  favorable :  no  instant  danger  at  an^^  rate  was 
apprehended.  In  the  course  of  the  last  two  years  her  Majestj^ 
had  had  many  attacks  similar,  but  more  severe. 

B}'  this  time  we  had  finished  a  half-dozen  of  Proclamations, 
(the  wording  of  them  so  as  to  offend  no  parties,  and  not  to  give 
umbrage  to  Whigs  or  Dissenters,  required  very  great  caution,) 
and  the  3^oung  Prince,  who  had  indeed  shown,  during  a  long 
da3^'s  labor,  both  alacrit}'  at  seizing  the  information  given  him, 
and  ingenuit}'  and  skill  in  turning  the  phrases  which  were  to 
go  out  signed  b}'  his  name,  here  exhibited  a  good-humor  and 
thoughtfulness  that  ought  to  be  set  down  to  his  credit. 

''  Were  these  papers  to  be  mislaid."  sa3's  he,  '^  or  our  schema 
to  come  to  mishap,  m3'  Lord  Esmond's  writing  would  bring  him 
to  a  place  where  I  heartil3^  hope  never  to  see  him  ;  and  so,  b}' 
3'our  leave,  I  will  cop3"  the  papers  m3'self,  though  I  am  not 
very  strong  in  spelling ;  and  if  the3'  are  found  the3'  will  impli- 
cate none  but  the  person  the}'  most  concern  ; "  and  so,  having 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  393 

careful!}^  copied  the  Proclamations  out,  the  Prince  burned  those 
in  Colonel  Esmond's  handwriting  :  "  And  now,  and  now,  gentle- 
men," says  he,  "let  us  go  to  supper,  and  drink  a  glass  with 
the  ladies.  My  Lord  Esmond,  3'OU  will  sup  with  us  to-night ; 
you  have  given  us  of  late  too  little  of  your  company." 

The  Prince's  meals  were  commonly  served  in  the  chamber 
which  had  been  Beatrix's  bedroom,  adjoining  that  in  which  he 
slept.  And  the  dutiful  practice  of  his  entertainers  was  to  wait 
until  their  Royal  guest  bade  them  take  their  places  at  table 
before  they  sat  down  to  partake  of  the  meal.  On  this  night, 
as  you  may  suppose,  onl}'  Frank  Castlewood  and  his  mother 
were  in  waiting  when  the  supper  was  announced  to  receive  the 
Prince ;  Who  had  passed  the  whole  of  the  day  in  his  own  apart- 
ment, with  the  Bishop  as  his  Minister  of  State,  and  Colonel 
Esmond  officiating  as  Secretary  of  his  Council. 

The  Prince's  countenance  wore  an  expression  b}^  no  means 
pleasant ;  when  looking  towards  the  little  company  assembled, 
and  waiting  for  him,  he  did  not  see  Beatrix's  bright  face  there 
as  usual  to  greet  him.  He  asked  Lady  Esmond  for  his  fair 
introducer  of  yesterda}' :  her  ladyship  onl}'  cast  her  eyes  down, 
and  said  quietl}^  Beatrix  could  not  be  of  the  supper  that  night ; 
nor  did  she  show  the  least  sign  of  confusion,  whereas  Castle- 
wood turned  red,  and  Esmond  was  no  less  embarrassed.  I 
think  women  have  an  instinct  of  dissimulation  ;  the}^  know  by 
nature  how  to  disguise  then-  emotions  far  better  than  the  most 
consummate  male  courtiers  can  do.  Is  not  the  better  part  of 
the  life  of  man}'  of  them  spent  in  hiding  their  feelings,  in  cajol- 
ing their  tyrants,  in  masking  over  with  fond  smiles  and  artful 
ga3'et3^  their  doubt,  or  their  grief,  or  their  terror? 

Our  guest  swallowed  his  supper  very  sulkily  ;  it  was  not  till 
the  second  bottle  his  Highness  began  to  rail}'.  When  Lad}^ 
Castlewood  asked  leave  to  depart,  he  sent  a  message  to  Beatrix, 
hoping  she  would  be  present  at  the  next  day's  dinner,  and  ap- 
plied himself  to  drink,  and  to  talk  afterwards,  for  which  there 
was  subject  in  plenty. 

The  next  day,  we  heard  from  our  informer  at  Kensington 
that  the  Queen  was  somewhat  better,  and  had  been  up  for 
an  hour,  though  she  was  not  well  enough  3'et  to  receive  any 
visitor. 

At  dinner  a  single  cover  was  laid  for  his  Royal  Highness  ; 
and  the  two  gentlemen  alone  waited  on  him.  We  had  had  a 
consultation  in  the  morning  with  Lady  Castlewood,  in  which 
it  had  been  determined  that,  should  his  Highness  ask  further 


394  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

questions  about  Beatrix,  he  should  be  answered  bj'  the  gentle- 
men of  the  house. 

He  was  evidently  disturbed  and  uneas}',  looking  towards  the 
door  constantl}',  as  if  expecting  some  one.  There  came,  how- 
ever, nobod}^,  except  honest  John  Lockwood,  when  he  knocked 
with  a  dish,  which  those  within  took  from  him ;  so  the  meals 
were  always  arranged,  and  I  believe  the  council  in  the  kitchen 
were  of  opinion  that  my  young  lord  had  brought  over  a  priest, 
who  had  converted  us  all  into  Papists,  and  that  Papists  were 
like  Jews,  eating  together,  and  not  choosing  to  take  tbeir  meals 
in  the  sight  of  Christians. 

The  Prince  tried  to  cover  his  displeasure  ;  he  was  but  a 
clumsy  dissembler  at  that  time,  and  when  out  of  humor  could 
with  difficult}'  keep  a  serene  countenance  ;  and  having  made 
some  foolish  attempts  at  trivial  talk,  he  came  to  his  point  pres- 
ently, and  in  as  easy  a  manner  as  he  could,  saying  to  Lord 
Castlewood,  he  hoped,  he  requested,  his  lordship's  mother  and 
sister  would  be  of  the  supper  that  night.  As  the  time  hung 
heavy  on  him,  and  he  must  not  go  abroad,  would  not  Miss 
Beatrix  hold  him  company  at  a  game  of  cards? 

At  this,  looking  up  at  P^smond,  and  taking  the  signal  from 
him.  Lord  Castlewood  informed  his  Royal  Highness*  that  his 
sister  Beatrix  was  not  at  Kensington  ;  and  that  her  famih^  had 
thought  it  best  she  should  quit  the  town. 

"  Not  at  Kensington  !  "  says  he  ;  "is  she  ill?  she  was  well 
yesterday  ;  wherefore  should  she  quit  the  town  ?  Is  it  at  3'our 
orders,  my  lord,  or  Colonel  Esmond's,  who  seems  the  master 
of  this  house  ?  " 

"Not  of  this,  sir,"  says  Frank  very  nobh^,  "  onl}^  of  our 
house  in  the  country,  which  he  hath  given  to  us.  This  is  my 
mother's  house,  and  Walcote  is  my  father's,  and  the  Marquis 
of  Esmond  knows  he  hath  but  to  give  his  word,  and  I  return 
his  to  him." 

"  The  Marquis  of  Esmond  !  —  the  Marquis  of  Esmond,"  saj^s 
the  Prince,  tossing  off  a  glass,  "  meddles  too  much  with  my 
affairs,  and  presumes  on  the  service  he  hath  done  me.  If  you 
want  to  carry  3'our  suit  with  Beatrix,  my  lord,  by  blocking 
her  up  in  gaol,  let  me  tell  you  that  is  not  the  way  to  win  a 
woman." 

"I  was  not  aware,  sir,  that  I  had  spoken  of  my  suit  to 
Madam  Beatrix  to  your  Royal  Highness." 

"Bah,  bah.  Monsieur!  we  need  not  be  a  conjurer  to  see 

*  In  London  we  addressed  tlie  Prince  as  Royal  Highness  invariably , 
though  the  women  persisted  in  giving  him  the  title  of  lung. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  395 

that.  It  makes  itself  seen  at  all  moments.  You  are  jealous, 
my  lord,  and  the  maid  of  honor  cannot  look  at  another  face 
without  3'ours  beginning  to  scowl.  That  which  you  do  is  un- 
worthy, Monsieur;  is  inhospitable  —  is,  is  lache,  yes,  lache  :  " 
(he  spoke  rapidly  in  French,  his  rage  carrying  him  away  with 
each  phrase  :)  ^'  I  come  to  3'our  house  ;  I  risk  my  life  ;  I  pass 
it  in  ennui ;  I  repose  myself  on  your  fidelity  ;  I  have  no  com- 
pany but  your  lordship's  sermons  or  the  conversations  of  that 
adorable  young  lady,  and  you  take  her  from  me,  and  you,  you 
rest !  Merci,  Monsieur !  I  shall  thank  you  when  I  have  the 
means  ;  I  shall  know  to  recompense  a  devotion  a  little  impor- 
tunate, my  lord  —  a  little  importunate.  For  a  month  past  your 
airs  of  protector  have  annoyed  me  beyond  measure.  You  deign 
to  ofler  me  the  crown,  and  bid  me  take  it  on  my  knees  hke 
King  John  —  eh  !  I  know  my  histor}'.  Monsieur,  and  mock 
myself  of  frowning  barons.  I  admire  your  mistress,  and  3'ou 
send  her  to  a  Bastile  of  the  Province  ;  1  enter  your  house,  and 
you  mistrust  me.  1  will  leave  it,  Monsieur;  from  to-night  I 
will  leave  it.  I  have  other  friends  whose  loyalt3^  will  not  be  so 
ready  to  question  mine.  If  I  have  garters  to  give  awaj-,  'tis  to 
noblemen  who  are  not  so  read}'  to  think  evil.  Bring  me  a  coach 
and  let  me  quit  this  place,  or  let  the  fair  Beatrix  return  to  it. 
I  will  not  have  3'our  hospitality  at  the  expense  of  the  freedom 
of  that  fair  creature." 

This  harangue  was  uttered  with  rapid  gesticulation  such  as 
the  French  use,  and  in  the  language  of  that  nation.  The  Prince 
striding  up  and  down  the  room  ;  his  face  flushed,  and  his  hands 
trembling  with  anger.  He  was  ver}-  thin  and  frail  from  re- 
peated illness  and  a  life  of  pleasure.  Either  Castlewood  or 
Esmond  could  have  broke  him  across  their  knee,  and  in  half  a 
minute's  struggle  put  an  end  to  him  ;  and  here  he  was  insult- 
ing us  both,  and  scarce  deigning  to  hide  from  the  two,  whose 
honor  it  most  concerned,  the  passion  he  felt  for  the  young  lady 
of  our  family.  M}-  Lord  Castlew^ood  replied  to  the  Prince's 
tirade  ver}-  nobly  and  simply. 

"  Sir,"  says  he,  "your  Royal  Highness  is  pleased  to  forget 
that  others  risk  their  lives,  and  for  your  cause.  Very  few  Eng- 
lishmen, please  God,  would  dare  to  lay  hands  on  your  sacred 
person,  though  none  would  ever  think  of  respecting  ours.  Our 
family's  lives  are  at  your  service,  and  everything  we  have  ex- 
cept our  honor." 

''Honor  !  bah,  sir,  who  ever  thought  of  hurting  your  honor?  " 
says  the  Prince  with  a  peevish  air. 

"  We  hnplore  your  Royal  Highness  never  to  think  of  hurt- 


396  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENllY  ESMOND. 

ing  it,"  says  Lord  Castlewood  with  a  low  bow.  The  night 
being  warm,  the  windows  were  open  both  towards  the  Gardens 
and  the  Square.  Colonel  Esmond  heard  through  the  closed 
door  the  voice  of  the  watchman  calling  the  hour,  in  the  square 
on  the  other  side.  He  opened  the  door  communicating  with 
the  Prince's  room ;  Martin,  the  servant  that  had  rode  with 
Beatrix  to  Hounslow,  was  just  going  out  of  the  chamber  as 
Esmond  entered  it,  and  when  the  fellow  was  gone,  and  the 
watchman  again  sang  his  cr}'  of  "  Past  ten  o'clock,  and  a  star- 
light night,"  Esmond  spoke  to  the  Prince  in  a  low  voice,  and 
said  —  "  Your  Po3'al  Highness  hears  that  man." 

'' Apres,  Monsieur?"  says  the  Prince. 

"I  have  but  to  beckon  him  from  the  window,  and  send  him 
fifty  yards,  and  he  returns  with  a  guard  of  men,  and  I  delivcT 
up  to  him  the  bod}^  of  the  person  calhng  himself  James  the 
Third,  for  whose  capture  Parliament  hath  offered  a  reward  of 
500/.,  as  3^our  Royal  Highness  saw  on  our  ride  from  Rochester. 
I  have  but  to  say  the  word,  and,  by  the  heaven  that  made  me, 
I  woukl  sa}^  it  if  I  thought  the  Prince,  for  his  honor's  sake, 
would  not  desist  from  insulting  ours.  But  the  first  gentleman 
of  England  knows  his  dut}^  too  well  to  forget  himself  with  the 
humblest,  or  peril  his  crown  for  a  deed  that  were  shameful  if  it 
were  done." 

"  Has  your  lordship  anything  to  say,"  says  the  Prince,  turn- 
ing to  Frank  Castlewood,  and  quite  pale  with  anger;  "any 
threat  or  any  insult,  with  which  you  would  like  to  end  this 
agreeable  night's  entertainment  ?  " 

"  I  follow  the  head  of  our  house,"  says  Castlewood,  bowing 
gravely.  "At  what  time  shall  it  please  the  Prince  that  we 
should  wait  upon  him  in  the  morning?" 

"You  will  wait  on  the  Bishop  of  Rochester  early,  you  will 
bid  him  bring  his  coach  hither ;  and  prepare  an  apartment  for 
me  in  his  own  house,  or  in  a  place  of  safet}'.  The  King  will 
reward  you  handsomely,  never  fear,  for  all  you  have  done  in 
his  behalf.  I  wish  you  a  good  night,  and  shall  go  to  bed,  un- 
less it  pleases  the  Marquis  of  Esmond  to  call  his  colleague,  the 
watchman,  and  that  I  should  pass  the  night  with  the  Kensing- 
ton guard.  Fare  3'ou  well,  be  sure  I  will  remember  3-ou.  M3^ 
Lord  Castlewood,  I  can  go  to  bed  to-night  without  need  of  a 
chamberlain."  And  the  Prince  dismissed  us  with  a  grim  bow, 
locking  one  door  as  he  spoke,  that  into  the  supping-room,  and 
the  other  through  which  we  passed,  after  us.  It  led  into  the 
small  chamber  which  Frank  Castlewood  or  Monsieur  Baptiste 


THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  397 

occupied,  and  by  which  Martin  entered  when  Colonel  Esmond 
but  now  saw  him  in  the  chamber. 

At  an  earl}^  hour  next  morning  the  Bishop  arrived,  and  was 
closeted  for  some  time  with  his  master  in  his  own  apartment, 
where  the  Prince  laid  open  to  his  counsellor  the  wrongs  which, 
according  to  his  version,  he  had  received  from  the  gentlemen 
of  the  Esmond  family.  The  worthy  prelate  came  out  from  the 
conference  with  an  air  of  great  satisfaction  ;  he  was  a  man  full 
of  resources,  and  of  a  most  assured  fidelit}',  and  possessed  of 
genius,  and  a  hundred  good  qualities  ;  but  captious  and  of  a 
most  jealous  temper,  that  could  not  help  exulting  at  the  down- 
fall of  any  favorite  ;  and  he  was  pleased  in  spite  of  himself  to 
hear  that  the  Esmond  Ministry  was  at  an  end. 

^'1  have  soothed  3'our  guest,'"  says  he,  coming  out  to  the 
two  gentlemen  and  the  widow,  who  had  been  made  acquainted 
with  somewhat  of  the  dispute  of  the  night  before.  (By  the  ver- 
sion we  gave  her,  the  Prince  was  only  made  to  exhibit  anger  be- 
cause we  doubted  of  his  intentions  in  respect  to  Beatrix ;  and 
to  leave  us,  because  we  questioned  his  honor.)  "  But  I  think, 
all  things  considered,  'tis  as  well  he  should  leave  this  house  ; 
and  then,  my  Lady  Castlewood,"  says  the  Bishop,  "  my  prett}^ 
Beatrix  may  come  back  to  it." 

"  She  is  quite  as  well  at  home  at  Castlewood,"  Esmond's 
mistress  said,  "  till  everything  is  over." 

"  You  shall  have  your  title,  Esmond,  that  I  promise  you," 
says  the  good  Bishop,  assuming  the  airs  of  a  Prime  Minister. 
''The  Prince  hath  expressed  himself  most  nobly  in  regard  of 
the  little  difference  of  last  night,  and  I  promise  you  he  hath 
listened  to  my  sermon,  as  well  as  to  that  of  other  folks,"  says 
the  Doctor,  archl}^ ;  "  he  hath  ever}^  great  and  generous  qual- 
ity, with  perhaps  a  weakness  for  the  sex  which  belongs  to  his 
famih',  and  hath  been  known  in  scores  of  popular  sovereigns 
from  King  David  downwards." 

''  My  lord,  my  lord  I  "  breaks  out  Lady  Esmond,  "  the  levit}^ 
with  which  you  speak  of  such  conduct  towards  our  sex  shocks 
me,  and  what  3'ou  call  weakness  I  call  deplorable  sin." 

"  Sin  it  is,  my  dear  creature,"  says  the  Bishop,  with  a 
shrug,  taking  snuff;  "but  consider  what  a  sinner  King  Solo- 
mon was,  and  in  spite  of  a  thousand  of  wives  too." 

''Enough  of  this,  my  lord,"  says  Lady  Castlewood,  with  a 
fine  blush,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  very  stately. 

The  Prince  entered  it  presently  with  a  smile  on  his  face, 
and  if  he  felt  any  offence  against  us  on  the  previous  niglit,  at 
present  exhibited  none.     He  ofl'ered  a  hand  to  each  gentle- 


398  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

man  with  great  courtesy.  "  If  all  your  bishops  preach  so  well 
as  Doctor  Atterburj-,"  says  he,  "I  don't  know,  gentlemen, 
what  may  happen  to  me.  I  spoke  very  hastily,  my  lords,  last 
night,  and  ask  pardon  of  both  of  you.  But  I  must  not  stay 
an}'  longer,"  says  he,  "giving  umbrage  to  good  friends,  or 
keeping  pretty  girls  away  from  their  homes.  M3'  Lord  Bishop 
hath  found  a  safe  place  for  me,  hard  by  at  a  curate's  house, 
whom  the  Bishop  can  trust,  and  whose  wife  is  so  ugly  as  to  be 
be3'ond  all  dauger ;  we  will  decamp  into  those  new  quarters, 
and  1  leave  you,  thanking  you  for  a  hundred  kindnesses  here. 
Where  is  my  hostess,  that  I  may  bid  her  farewell ;  to  welcome 
her  in  a  house  of  my  own,  soon,  I  trust,  where  my  friends  shall 
have  no  cause  to  quarrel  with  me." 

Lady  Castlewood  arrived  presently,  blushing  with  great 
grace,  and  tears  filling  her  eyes  as  the  Prince  graciously  saluted 
her.  She  looked  so  charming  and  young,  that  the  doctor,  in 
his  bantering  way,  could  not  help  speaking  of  her  beautj'  to  the 
Prince ;  whose  compliment  made  her  blush,  and  look  more 
charmins:  still. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  GREAT  SCHEME,  AND  WHO  BALKED  IT. 

As  characters  Written  with  a  secret  ink  come  out  with  the 
application  of  fire,  and  disappear  again  and  leave  the  paper 
white,  as  soon  as  it  is  cool ;  a  hundred  names  of  men,  high  in 
repute  and  favoring  the  Prince's  cause,  that  were  writ  in  our 
private  lists,  would  have  been  visible  enough  on  the  great  roll 
of  the  conspirac}',  had  it  ever  been  laid  open  under  the  sun. 
What  crowds  would  have  pressed  forward,  and  subscribed  their 
names  and  protested  their  loyalt}^,  when  the  danger  was  over ! 
What  a  number  of  Whigs,  now  high  in  place  and  creatures  of 
the  all-powerful  Minister,  scorned  Mr.  Walpole  then !  If  evej* 
a  match  was  gained  by  the  manliness  and  decision  of  a  few  at 
a  moment  of  danger  ;  if  ever  one  was  lost  b}'  the  treachery  and 
imbecility  of  those  that  had  the  cards  in  their  hands,  and  might 
have  played  them,  it  was  in  that  momentous  game  which  was 
enacted  in  the  next  three  daj's,  and  of  which  the  noblest  crown 
in  the  world  was  the  stake. 

From  the  conduct  of  m}^  Lord  Bolingbroke,  those  who  were 
interested  in  the  scheme  we  had  in  hand,  saw  pretty  well  that 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  399 

he  was  not  to  be  trusted.  Should  the  Prince  prevail,  it  was 
his  lordship's  gracious  intention  to  declare  for  him  :  should  the 
Hanoverian  party  bring  in  their  sovereign,  who  more  ready  to 
go  on  his  knee,  and  cry,  "  God  Save  King  George?"  And  he 
betrayed  the  one  Prince  and  the  other ;  but  exactly  at  the 
wrong  time.  When  he  should  have  struck  for  King  James,  he 
faltered  and  coquetted  with  the  Whigs  ;  and  having  committed 
himself  by  the  most  monstrous  professions  of  devotion,  which 
the  Elector  rightly  scorned,  he  proved  the  justness  of  their 
contempt  for  him  by  flying  and  taking  renegade  service  with 
St.  Germains,  just  when  he  should  have  kept  aloof:  and  that 
Court  despised  him,  as  the. manly  and  resolute  men  who  estab- 
lished the  Elector  in  England  had  before  done.  He  signed  his 
own  name  to  every  accusation  of  insincerity  his  enemies  made 
against  him  ;  and  the  King  and  the  Pretender  alike  coukl  show 
proofs  of  St.  John's  treacher}'  under  his  own  hand  and  seal. 

Our  friends  kept  a  pretty  close  watch  upon  his  motions,  as 
on  those  of  the  brave  and  hearty  Whig  party,  that  made  little 
concealment  of  theirs.  They  would  have  in  the  Elector,  and 
used  every  means  in  their  power  to  eflTect  their  end.  My  Lord 
Marlborough  was  now  with  them.  His  expulsion  from  power 
by  the  Tories  had  thrown  that  great  captain  at  once  on  the 
Whig  side.  We  heard  he  was  coming  from  Antwerp  ;  and,  in 
fact,  on  the  day  of  the  Queen's  death,  he  once  more  landed  on 
English  shore.  A  great  part  of  the  arm^^  was  always  with 
their  illustrious  leader ;  even  the  Tories  in  it  were  indignant  at 
the  injustice  of  the  persecution  which  the  Whig  officers  were 
made  to  undergo.  The  chiefs  of  these  were  in  London,  and  at 
the  head  of  them  one  of  the  most  intrepid  men  in  the  world, 
the  Scots  Duke  of  Argyle,  whose  conduct  on  the  second  da}' 
after  that  to  wliich  I  have  now  brought  down  my  histor3%  ended, 
as  such  honesty  and  braverj'  deserved  to  end,  by  establisliing 
the  present  Royal  race  on  the  English  throne. 

Meanwhile  there  was  no  slight  difference  of  opinion  amongst 
the  councillors  surrounding  the  Prince,  as  to  the  plan  his  High- 
ness should  pursue.  His  female  Minister  at  Court,  fancying 
she  saw  some  amelioration  in  the  Queen,  was  for  waiting  a  few 
days,  or  hours  it  might  be,  until  he  could  be  brought  to  her  bed- 
side, and  acknowledged  as  her  heir.  Mr.  Esmond  was  for  having 
him  march  thither,  escorted  by  a  couple  of  troops  of  Horse 
Guards,  and  openly  presenting  himself  to  the  Council.  During 
the  whole  of  the  night  of  the  29th-30th  July,  the  Colonel  was 
engaged  with  gentlemen  of  the  military  profession,  whom  'tis 
needless  here  to  name ;  suffice  it  to  say  that  several  of  them 


400  THE   HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND. 

had  exceeding  high  rank  in  the  army,  and  one  of  them  in 
especial  was  a  General,  who,  when  he  heard  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough was  coming  on  the  other  side,  waved  his  crutch  over 
his  head  with  a  huzzah,  at  the  idea  that  he  should  march  out 
and  engage  him.  Of  the  three  Secretaries  of  State,  we  knew 
that  one  was  devoted  to  us.  The  Governor  of  the  Tower  was 
ours ;  the  two  companies  on  duty  at  Kensington  barrack  were 
safe  ;  and  we  had  intelligence,  ver}-  speedy  and  accurate,  of  all 
that  took  place  at  the  Palace  within. 

At  noon,  on  the  30th  of  Jul}',  a  message  came  to  the  Prince's 
friends  that  the  Committee  of  Council  was  sitting  at  Kensington 
Palace,  their  Graces  of  Ormonde  and  Shrewsbur}',  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  and  the  three  Secretaries  of  State,  being 
there  assembled.  In  an  hour  afterwards,  hurried  news  was 
brought  that  the  two  great  Whig  Dukes,  Arg3-le  and  Somerset, 
had  broke  into  the  Council-chamber  without  a  summons,  and 
taken  their  seat  at  table.  After  holding  a  debate  there,  the 
whole  party  proceeded  to  the  chamber  of  the  Queen,  who  was 
lying  in  great  weakness,  but  still  sensible,  and  the  Lords  recom- 
mended his  Grace  of  Shrewsbury  as  the  fittest  person  to  take 
the  vacant  place  of  Lord  Treasurer ;  her  Majesty  gave  him 
the  staff,  as  all  know.  "  And  now,"  writ  my  messenger  from 
Court,  "'  now  or  never  is  the  time  J' 

Now  or  never  was  the  time  indeed.  In  spite  of  the  Whig 
Dukes,  our  side  had  still  the  majority  in  the  Council,  and 
Elsmond,  to  whom  the  message  had  been  brought,  (the  person- 
age at  Court  not  being  aware  that  the  Prince  had  quitted  his 
lodging  in  Kensington  Square,)  and  Esmond's  gallant  young 
aide-de-camp,  Frank  Castlewood,  putting  on  sword  and  uniform, 
took  a  brief  leave  of  their  dear  lady,  who  embraced  and  blessed 
them  both,  and  went  to  her  chamber  to  pray  for  the  issue  of 
the  great  event  which  was  then  pending. 

Castlewood  sped  to  the  barrack  to  give  warning  to  the  cap- 
tain of  the  Guard  there  ;  and  then  went  to  the  ''  King's  Arms  " 
tavern  at  Kensington,  where  our  friends  were  assembled,  having 
come  b}'  parties  of  twos  and  threes,  riding  or  in  coaches,  and 
were  got  together  in  the  upper  chamber,  fifty-three  of  them  ; 
their  servants,  who  had  been  instructed  to  bring  arms  likewise, 
being  below  in  the  garden  of  the  tavern,  where  they  were  served 
with  drink.  Out  of  this  garden  is  a  little  door  that  leads  into 
the  road  of  the  Palace,  and  through  this  it  was  arranged  that 
masters  and  servants  were  to  march  ;  when  that  signal  was 
given,  and  that  Personage  appeared,  for  whom  all  were  waiting. 
There  was  in  our  company  the  famous  officer  n&xt  in  command 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESM0:N'D.  401 

to  the  Captain- General  of  the  Forces,  his  Grace  the  Duke  of 
Ormonde,  who  was  within  at  the  Council.  There  were  with 
him  two  more  lieutenant-generals,  nine  major-generals  and 
brigadiers,  seven  colonels,  eleven  Peers  of  Parliament,  and 
twenty-one  members  of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  Guard 
was  with  us  within  and  without  the  Palace  :  the  Queen  was 
with  us ;  the  Council  (save  the  two  Whig  Dukes,  that  must 
have  succumbed)  ;  the  day  was  our  own,  and  with  a  beating 
heart  Esmond  walked  rapidlj^  to  the  Mall  of  Kensington,  where 
he  had  parted  with  the  Prince  on  the  night  before.  For  three 
nights  the  Colonel  had  not  been  to  bed :  the  last  had  been 
passed  summoning  the  Prince's  friends  together,  of  whom  the 
great  ms^jority  had  no  sort  of  inkling  of  the  transaction  pending 
until  they  were  told  that  he  was  actually  on  the  spot,  and  were 
summoned  to  strike  the  blow.  The  night  before  and  after  the 
altercation  with  the  Prince,  my  gentleman,  having  suspicions 
of  his  Royal  Highness,  and  fearing  lest  he  should  be  minded  to 
give  us  the  slip,  and  fly  off  after  his  fugitive  beauty,  had  spent, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told,  at  the  "Greyhound"  tavern,  over 
against  my  Lady  Castle  wood's  house  in  Kensington  Square, 
with  an  eye  on  the  door,  lest  the  Prince  should  escape  from  it. 
The  night  before  thit  he  had  passed  in  his  boots  at  the  ' '  Crown  " 
at  Hounslow,  where  he  must  watch  forsooth  all  night,  in  order 
to  get  one  moment's  glimpse  of  Beatrix  in  the  morning.  And 
fate  had  decreed  that  he  was  to  have  a  fourth  night's  ride  and 
wakefulness  before  his  business  was  ended. 

He  ran  to  the  curate's  house  in  Kensington  Mall,  and  asked 
for  Mr.  Bates,  the  name  the  Prince  went  by.  The  curate's 
wife  said  Mr.  Bates  had  gone  abroad  very  early  in  the  morning 
in  his  boots,  sajang  he  was  going  to  the  Bishop  of  Rochester's 
house  at  Chelsey.  But  the  Bishop  had  been  at  Kensington 
himself  two  hours  ago  to  seek  for  Mr.  Bates,  and  had  returned 
in  his  coach  to  his  own  house,  when  he  heard  that  the  gentle- 
man was  gone  thither  to  seek  him. 

This  absence  was  most  unpropitious,  for  an  hour's  delay 
might  cost  a  kingdom  ;  Esmond  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  has- 
ten to  the  "  King's  Arms,"  and  tell  the  gentlemen  there  assem- 
bled that  Mr.  George  (as  we  called  the  Prince  there)  was  not 
at  home,  but  that  Esmond  would  go  fetch  him  ;  and  taking  a 
General's  coach  that  happened  to  be  there,  Esmond  drove 
across  the  country  to  Chelsey,  to  the  Bishop's  house  there. 

The  porter  said  two  gentlemen  were  with  his  lordship,  and 
Esmond  ran  past  this  sentr}^  up  to  the  locked  door  of  the 
Bishop's  study,  at  which  he  rattled,   and  was  admitted  pres- 

26 


402  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

eiitly.  Of  the  Bishop's  guests  one  was  a  brother  prelate,  and 
the  other  the  Abbe  G . 

"  Where  is  Mr.  George?"  says  Mr.  Esmond  ;  "  now  is  the 
time."  The  Bishop  looked  scared:  "  I  went  to  his  lodging," 
he  said,  "  and  they  told  me  he  was  oome  hither.  I  returned  as 
quick  as  coach  would  carry  me  ;  and  he  hath  not  been  here." 

The  Colonel  burst  out  with  an  oath  ;  that  was  all  he  could 
say  to  their  reverences  ;  ran  down  the  stairs  again,  and  bidding 
the  coachman,  an  old  friend  and  fellovf -campaigner,  drive  as  if 
he  was  charging  the  French  with  his  master  at  Wj-nendael  — 
they  were  back  at  Kensington  in  half  an  hour. 

Again  Esmond  went  to  the  curate's  house.  Mr.  Bates  had 
not  returned.  The  Colonel  had  to  go  with  this  blank  errand 
to  the  gentlemen  at  the  ''King's  Arms,"  that  were  grown 
very  impatient  by  this  time. 

Out  of  the  window  of  the  tavern,  and  looking  over  the  gar- 
den wall,  you  can  see  the  green  before  Kensington  Palace, 
the  Palace  gate  (round  which  the  Ministers'  coaches  were 
standing) ,  and  the  barrack  building.  As  we  were  looking  out 
from  this  window  in  gloom}^  discourse,  we  heard  presently 
trumpets  blowing,  and  some  of  us  ran  to  the  window  of  the 
front-room,  looking  into  the  High  Street  of  Kensington,  and 
saw  a  regiment  of  Horse  coming. 

"  It's  Ormonde's  Guards,"  sa3^s  one. 

"No,  b}^  God,  it's  Argyle's  old  regiment!"  saj^s  my  Gen- 
eral, clapping  down  his  crutch. 

It  was,  indeed,  Argyle's  regiment  that  was  brought  from 
Westminster,  and  that  took  the  place  of  the  regiment  at  Ken- 
sington on  which  we  could  rel3^ 

"Oh,  Hany ! "  saj's  one  of  the  generals  there  present, 
"  you  were  born  under  an  unlucky  star  ;  I  begin  to  think  that 
there's  no  Mr.  George,  nor  Mr.  Dragon  either.  'Tis  not  the 
peerage  I  care  for,  for  our  name  is  so  ancient  and  famous,  that 
merely  to  be  called  Lord  Lydiard  would  do  me  no  good';  but 
'tis  the  chance  3'ou  promised  me  of  fighting  Marlborough." 

As  we  were  talking,  Castlewood  entered  the  room  with  a 
disturbed  air. 

"  What  news,  Frank?"  says  the  Colonel.  "  Is  Mr.  George 
coming  at  last?" 

"Damn  him,  look  here!  "  says  Castlewood,  holding  out  a 
paper.  "I  found  it  in  the  book  —  the  what  you  call  it, 
'  Eikum  Basilikum,' —  that  villain  Martin  put  it  there  —  he  said 
his  3^oung  mistress  bade  him.  It  was  directed  to  me,  but  it 
was  meant  for  him  I  know,  and  I  broke  the  seal  and  read  it." 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  403 

The  whole  assembly  of  officers  seemed  to  swim  away 
before  Esmond's  e3'es  as  he  read  the  paper ;  all  that  was 
written  on  it  was  :  —  "  Beatrix  Esmond  is  sent  away  to  prison, 
to  Castlewood,  where  she  will  pra}^  for  happier  days." 

"Can  you  guess  where  he  is?"  says  Castlewood. 

"Yes,"  says  Colonel  Esmond.  He  knew  fall  well,  Frank 
knew  full  well :  our  instinct  told  whither  that  traitor  had  fled. 

He  had  courage  to  turn  to  the  company  and  say,  "  Gentle- 
men, I  fear  Aery  much  that  Mr.  George  will  not  be  here  to-day  ; 
something  hath  happened  —  and  —  and  —  I  very  much  fear 
some  accident  may  befall  him,  which  must  keep  him  out  of  the 
way.  Having  had  j'our  noon's  draught,  you  had  best  pay  the 
reckoning  and  go  home ;  there  can  be  no  game  where  there  is 
no  one  to  play  it." 

Some  of  the  gentlemen  went  away  without  a  word,  others 
called  to  pay  their  duty  to  her  Majesty  and  ask  for  her  health. 
The  little  army  disappeared  into  the  darkness  out  of  which  it 
had  been  called  ;  there  had  been  no  writings,  no  paper  to  im- 
plicate any  man.  Some  few  officers  and  Members  of  Parlia- 
ment had  been  invited  over  night  to  breakfast  at  the  "  King's 
Arms,"  at  Kensington ;  and  they  had  called  for  their  bill  and 
gone  home. 


CHAPTER    XIIL 

AUGUST  1st,   1714. 

"  Does  my  mistress  know  of  this  ?  "  Esmond  asked  of  Frank, 
as  the}^  walked  along. 

"  My  mother  found  the  letter  in  the  book,  on  the  toilet- 
table.  She  had  writ  it  ere  she  had  left  home,"  Frank  said. 
"  Mother  met  her  on  the  stairs,  with  her  hand  upon  the  door, 
trying  to  enter,  and  never  left  her  after  that  till  she  went  away. 
He  did  not  think  of  lool^ing  at  it  there,  nor  had  Martin  the 
chance  of  telling  him.  I  believe  the  poor  devil  meant  no  harm, 
though  I  half  killed  him  ;  he  thought  'twas  to  Beatrix's  brother 
he  was  bringing  the  letter." 

Frank  never  said  a  word  of  reproach  to  me  for  having 
brought  the  villain  amongst  us.  As  we  knocked  at  the  door 
I  said,  "When  will  the  horses  be  ready?"  Frank  pointed 
with  his  cane,  they  were  turning  the  street  that  moment. 


404  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

We  went  up  and  bade  adieu  to  our  mistress  ;  she  was  in  a 
dreadful  state  of  agitation  b}^  this  time,  and  that  Bishop  was 
with  her  whose  compan}^  she  was  so  fond  of. 

"  Did  you  tell  him,  my  lord,"  says  Esmond,  "  that  Beatrix 
was  at  Castle  wood  ?  "  The  Bishop  blushed  and  stammered  : 
''Well,"  says  he,  "  I  .  .  ." 

"  You  served  the  villain  right,"  broke  out  Mr.  Esmond, 
"  and  he  has  lost  a  crown  by  what  j^ou  told  him." 

My  mistress  turned  quite  white,  "Henry,  Henry,"  says 
she,  "  do  not  kill  him." 

"  It  may  not  be  too  late,"  sa3^s  Esmond  ;  "he  may  not  have 
gone  to  Castle  wood  ;  pray  God,  it  is  not  too  late."  The  Bishop 
was  breaking  out  with  some  banale  phrases  about  loyaltj^,  and 
the  sacredness  of  the  Sovereign's  person ;  but  Esmond  sternly 
bade  him  hold  his  tongue,  burn  all  papers,  and  take  care  of 
Lady  Castlewood  ;  and  in  five  minutes  he  and  Frank  were  in 
the  saddle,  John  Lockwood  behind  them,  riding  towards  Castle- 
wood at  a  rapid  pace. 

We  were  just  got  to  Alton,  when  who  should  meet  us  but 
old  Lockwood,  the  porter  from  Castlewood,  John's  father, 
walking  by  the  side  of  the  Hexton  flying-coach,  who  slept  the 
night  at  Alton.  Lockwood  said  his  young  mistress  had  arrived 
at  home  on  Wednesday  night,  and  this  morning,  Friday,  had 
despatched  him  with  a  packet  for  my  lad}'  at  Kensington,  say- 
ing the  letter  was  of  great  importance. 

We  took  the  freedom  to  break  it,  while  Lockwood  stared 
with  wonder,  and  cried  out  his  "  Lord  bless  me's,"  and  "  Who'd 
a  thought  it's,"  at  the  sight  of  his  young  lord,  whom  he  had 
not  seen  these  seven  3^ears. 

The  packet  from  Beatrix  contained  no  news  of  importance 
at  all.  It  was  written  in  a  jocular  strain,  affecting  to  make 
light  of  her  captivity.  She  asked  whether  she  might  have 
leave  to  visit  Mrs.  Tusher,  or  to  walk  be3'ond  the  court  and 
the  garden  wall.  She  gave  news  of  the  peacocks,  and  a  fawn 
she  had  there.  She  bade  her  mother  send  her  certain  gowns 
and  smocks  by  old  Lockwood  ;  she  sent  her  dut}^  to  a  certain 
Person,  if  certain  other  persons  permitted  her  to  take  such  a 
freedom ;  how  that,  as  she  was  not  able  to  pla}^  cards  with 
him,  she  hoped  he  would  read  good  books,  such  as  Doctor 
Atterburv-'s  sermons  and  ' '  Eikon  Basilike  :  "  she  was  going  to 
read  good  books ;  she  thought  her  pretty  mamma  would  like 
to  know  she  was  not  crjing  her  eyes  out. 

"Who  is  in  the  house  besides  you,  Lockwood?"  says  the 
Colonel. 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  405 

"  There  be  the  launclrj-maid,  and  the  kitchen-maid,  Madam 
Beatrix's  maid,  the  man  from  London,  and  that  be  all ;  and  he 
sleepeth  in  my  lodge  away  from  the  maids,"  says  old  Lock- 
wood. 

Esmond  scribbled  a  line  with  a  pencil  on  the  note,  giving 
it  to  the  old  man,  and  bidding  him  go  on  to  his  lady.  We 
knew  why  Beatrix  had  been  so  dutiful  on  a  sudden,  and  why 
she  spoke  of  "  Eikon  Basilike."  She  wTit  this  letter  to  put 
the  Prince  on  the  scent,  and  the  porter  out  of  the  wa}^ 

"We  have  a  fine  moonlight  night  for  riding  on,"  saj^s 
Esmond;  "Frank,  we  may  reach  Castle  wood  in  time  yet." 
All  the  way  along  they  made  inquiries  at  the  post-houses, 
when  a  tall  young  gentleman  in  a  gray  suit,  with  a  light  brown 
periwig,  just  the  color  of  m}^  lord's,  had  been  seen  to  pass. 
He  had  set  off  at  six  that  morning,  and  we  at  three  in  the 
afternoon.  He  rode  almost  as  quickl}^  as  we  had  done ;  he 
was  seven  hours  a-head  of  us  still  when  we  reached  the  last 
stage. 

We  rode  over  Castlewood  Downs  before  the  breaking  of 
dawn.  We  passed  the  very  spot  where  the  car  was  upset  four- 
teen years  since,  and  Mohun  lay.  The  village  was  not  up  yet, 
nor  the  forge  lighted,  as  we  rode  through  it,  passing  by  the 
elms,  where  the  rooks  were  still  roosting,  and  by  the  church, 
and  over  the  bridge.  We  got  off  our  horses  at  the  bridge  and 
walked  up  to  the  gate. 

"  If  she  is  safe,"  says  Frank,  trembling,  and  his  honest  eyes 
filling  with  tears,  "a  silver  statue  to  Our  Lady!"  He  was 
going  to  rattle  at  the  great  iron  knocker  on  the  oak  gate ;  but 
Esmond  stopped  his  kinsman's  hand.  He  had  his  own  fears, 
his  own  hopes,  his  own  despairs  and  griefs,  too ;  but  he  spoke 
not  a  word  of  these  to  his  companion,  or  showed  any  signs  of 
emotion. 

He  went  and  tapped  at  the  little  window  at  the  porter's 
lodge,  gently,  but  repeatedly,  until  the  man  came  to  the  bars. 

"Who's  there?"  says  he,  looking  out;  it  was  the  servant 
from  Kensington. 

"  My  Lord  Castlewood  and  Colonel  Esmond,"  we  said,  from 
below.     "  Open  the  gate  and  let  us  in  without  an}^  noise." 

"  My  Lord  Castlewood?"  says  the  other ;  "  my  lord's  here, 
and  in  bed." 

"  Open,  d — n  you,"  says  Castlewood,  with  a  curse. 

"I  shall  open  to  no  one,"  says  the  man,  shutting  the  glass 
window  as  Frank  drew  a  pistol.  He  would  have  fired  at  the 
por-ter,  but  Esmond  again  held  his  hand. 


406  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOxVD. 

"There  are  more  ways  than  one,"  ssijs  he,  "of  entering 
such  a  great  house  as  this."  Frank  grumbled  that  the  west 
gate  was  half  a  mile  round.  "  But  I  know  of  a  way  that's  not 
a  hundred  yards  off,"  says  Mr.  Esmond  ;  and  leading  his  kins- 
man close  along  the  wall,  and  by  the  shrubs  which  had  now 
grown  thick  on  what  had  been  an  old  moat  about  the  house, 
the}^  came  to  the  buttress,  at  the  side  of  which  the  little  window 
was,  which  was  Father  Holt's  private  door.  Esmond  climbed 
up  to  this  easily,  broke  a  pane  that  had  been  mended,  and 
touched  the  spring  inside,  and  the  two  gentlemen  passed  in 
that  way,  treading  as  lightly  as  they  could  ;  and  so  going 
through  the  passage  into  the  court,  over  which  the  dawn  was 
now  reddening,  and  where  the  fountain  plashed  in  the  silence. 

They  sped  instantly  to  the  porter's  lodge,  where  the  fellow 
had  not  fastened  his  door  that  led  into  the  court ;  and  pistol 
in  hand  came  upon  the  terrified  wretch,  and  bade  him  be  silent. 
Then  they  asked  him  (Esmond's  head  reeled,  and  he  almost 
fell  as  he  spoke)  when  Lord  Castlewood  had  arrived?  He  said 
on  the  previous  evening,  about  eight  of  the  clock.  —  "And 
what  then  ?  "  —  His  lordship  supped  with  his  sister.  —  ' '  Did 
the  man  wait?"  Yes,  he  and  my  lady's  maid  both  waited: 
the  other  servants  made  the  supper ;  and  there  was  no  wine, 
and  they  could  give  his  lordship  but  milk,  at  which  he  grumbled  ; 
and  —  and  Madam  Beatrix  kept  Miss  Lucy  always  in  the  room 
with  her.  And  there  being  a  bed  across  the  court  in  the  Chap- 
lain's room,  she  had  arranged  my  lord  was  to  sleep  there. 
Madam  Beatrix  had  come  down  stairs  laughing  with  the  maids, 
and  had  locked  herself  in,  and  my  lord  had  stood  for  a  while 
talking  to  her  through  the  door,  and  she  laughing  at  him. 
And  then  he  paced  the  court  awhile,  and  she  came  again  to 
the  upper  window ;  and  m}-  lord  implored  her  to  come  down 
and  walk  in  the  room  ;  but  she  would  not,  and  laughed  at  him 
again,  and  shut  the  window ;  and  so  my  lord,  uttering  what 
seemed  curses,  but  in  a  foreign  language,  went  to  the  Chap- 
lain's room  to  bed. 

"  Was  this  all !  "  —  "  All,"  the  man  swore  upon  his  honor  ; 
all  as  he  hoped  to  be  saved.  —  "Stop,  there  was  one  thing 
more.  My  lord,  on  arriving,  and  once  or  twice  during  supper, 
did  kiss  his  sister,  as  was  natural,  and  she  kissed  him."  At 
this  Esmond  ground  his  teeth  with  rage,  and  wellnigh  throttled 
the  amazed  miscreant  who  was  speaking,  whereas  Castlewood, 
seizing  hold  of  his  cousin's  hand,  burst  into  a  great  fit  o' 
laughter. 

"K  it  amuses  thee,"  says  Esmond  in  French,  "that  your 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  407 

sister  should  be  exchanging  of  kisses  with  a  stranger,  I  fear 
poor  Beatrix  will  give  thee  plenty  of  sport."  —  Esmond  darkly 
thought,  how  Hamilton,  Ashburnham,  had  before  been  masters 
of  those  roses  that  the  young  Prince's  lips  were  now  feeding  on. 
He  sickened  at  that  notion.  Her  cheek  was  desecrated,  her 
beauty  tarnished  ;  shame  and  honor  stood  between  it  and  him. 
The  love  was  dead  within  him  ;  had  she  a  crown  to  bring  him 
with  her  love,  he  felt  that  both  would  degrade  him. 

But  this  wrath  against  Beatrix  did  not  lessen  the  angry  feel- 
ings of  the  Colonel  against  the  man  who  had  been  the  occasion 
if  not  the  cause  of  the  evil.  Frank  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench 
in  the  court-yard,  and  fairly  fell  asleep,  while  Esmond  paced 
up  and  down  the  court,  debating  what  should  ensue.  What 
mattered  how  much  or  how  little  had  passed  between  the  Prince 
and  the  poor  faithless  girl  ?  They  were  arrived  in  time  perhaps 
to  rescue  her  person,  but  not  her  mind  ;  had  she  not  instigated 
the  young  Prince  to  come  to  iier ;  suborned  servants,  dismissed 
others,  so  that  she  might  communicate  with  him  ?  The  treach- 
erous heart  within  her  had  surrendered,  though  the  place  was 
safe  ;  and  it  was  to  win  this  that  h6  had  given  a  life's  struggle 
and  devotion ;  this,  that  she  was  ready  to  give  away  for  the 
bribe  of  a  coronet  or  a  wink  of  the  Prince's  eye. 

When  he  had  thought  his  thoughts  out  he  shook  up  poor 
Frank  from  his  sleep,  who  rose  yawning,  and  said  he  had  been 
dreaming  of  Clotilda.  "You  must  back  me,"  says  Esmond, 
''  in  what  I  am  going  to  do.  I  have  been  thinking  that  yonder 
scoundrel  may  have  been  instructed  to  tell  that  stor3%  and  that 
the  whole  of  it  may  be  a  lie  ;  if  it  be,  we  shall  find  it  out  from 
the  gentleman  who  is  asleep  3'onder.  See  if  the  door  leading 
to  my  lady's  rooms,"  (so  we  called  the  rooms  at  the  north-west 
angle  of  the  house,)  "see  if  the  door  is  barred  as  he  saith." 
We  tried ;  it  was  indeed  as  the  lackey  had  said,  closed  within. 

"  It  may  have  been  opened  and  shut  afterwards,"  says  poor 
Esmond  ;  "  the  foundress  of  our  family  let  our  ancestor  in  in 
that  way." 

"  What  will  3^ou  do,  Harr}^,  if — if  what  that  fellow  saith 
should  turn  out  untrue?"  The  young  man  looked  scared  and 
frightened  into  his  kinsman's  face  ;  I  dare  sa}^  it  wore  no  very 
pleasant  expression. 

"Let  us  first  go  see  whether  the  two  stories  agree,"  says 
Esmond  ;  and  went  in  at  the  passage  and  opened  the  door  into 
what  had  been  his  own  chamber  now  for  wellnigh  five-and- 
twent}^  years.  A  candle  was  still  burning,  and  the  Prince 
asleep  dressed  on  the  bed — Esmond  did  not  care  for  making  a 


408  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

noise.  The  Prince  started  up  in  his  bed,  seeing  two  men  in 
his  chamber.  "  Qui  est  la?  "  says  he,  and  took  a  pistol  from 
under  his  pillow. 

"  It  is  the  Marquis  of  Esmond,"  says  the  Colonel,  "come 
to  welcome  his  Majesty-  to  his  house  of  Castlewood,  and  to  report 
of  what  hath  happened  in  London.  Pursuant  to  the  King's 
orders,  I  passed  the  night  before  last,  after  leaving  his  Majesty, 
in  waiting  upon  the  friends  of  the  King.  It  is  a  pity  that  his 
Majesty's  desire  to  see  the  country  and  to  visit  our  poor  house 
should  have  caused  the  King  to  quit  London  without  notice 
yesterda}',  when  the  opportunit}'  happened  which  in  all  human 
probability  may  not  occur  again  ;  and  had  the  King  not  chosen 
to  ride  to  Castlewood,  the  Prince  of  Wales  might  have  slept  at 
St.  James's." 

"  'Sdeath  !  gentlemen,"  ssljs  the  Prince,  starting  off  his  bed, 
whereon  he  was  lying  in  his  clothes,  "  the  Doctor  was  with  me 
yesterday  morning,  and  after  watching  by  my  sister  all  night, 
told  me  I  might  not  hope  to  see  the  Queen." 

"  It  would  have  been  otherwise,"  says  Esmond  with  another 
bow ;  "  as,  by  this  time,  the  Queen  maybe  dead  in  spite  of  the 
Doctor.  The  Council  was  met,  a  new  Treasurer  was  appointed, 
the  troops  were  devoted  to  the  King's  cause  ;  and  fifty  loyal  gen- 
tlemen of  the  greatest  names  of  this  kingdom  were  assembled  to 
accompany  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  might  have  been  the  ac- 
knowledged heir  of  the  throne,  or  the  possessor  of  it  by  this 
time,  had  3^our  Majesty  not  chosen  to  take  the  air.  We  were 
ready  ;  there  was  only  one  person  that  failed  us,  your  Majesty's 
gracious  —  " 

"  Morbleu,  Monsieur,  you  give  me  too  much  Majesty,"  said 
the  Prince,  who  had  now  risen  up  and  seemed  to  be  looking  to 
one  of  us  to  help  him  to  his  coat.     But  neither  stirred. 

"We  shall  take  care,"  says  Esmond,  "  not  much  oftener  to 
offend  in  that  particular." 

"  What  mean  you,  my  lord?  "  says  the  Prince,  and  muttered 
something  about  a  guet-a-pens,  which  Esmond  caught  up. 

"  The  snare,  Sir,"  said  he,  "was  not  of  our  la3ing  ;  it  is  not 
we  that  invited  you.  We  came  to  avenge,  and  not  to  compass, 
the  dishonor  of  our  family." 

"Dishonor!  Morbleu,  there  has  been  no  dishonor,"  says 
the  Prince,  turning  scarlet,  "  only  a  little  harmless  playing." 

"  That  was  meant  to  end  seriousty." 

"I  swear,"  the  Prince  broke  out  impetuously,  "  upon  the 
honor  of  a  gentleman,  my  lords  —  " 

"  That  we   arrived  in  time.     No  wrong  hath  been  done, 


THE  HISTORY  OF   HENRY  ESMOND.  409 

Frank,"  saj-s  Colonel  Esmond,  turning  round  to  young  Castle- 
wood,  who  stood  at  the  door  as  the  talk  was  going  on.  "  See  ! 
here  is  a  paper  whereon  his  Majest}^  has  deigned  to  commence 
some  verses  in  honor,  or  dishonor,  of  Beatrix.  Here  is  '  Ma- 
dame' and  '  Flamme,'  'Cruelle'and  '  Rebelle,"  and  'Amour' 
and  '  Jour '  in  the  Royal  writing  and  spelling.  Had  the  Gra- 
cious lover  been  happy,  he  had  not  passed  his  time  in  sighing." 
In  fact,  and  actually  as  he  was  speaking,  Esmond  cast  his  e3'es 
down  towards  the  table,  and  saw  a  paper  on  which  my  young 
Prince  had  been  scrawling  a  madrigal,  that  was  to  finish  his 
charmer  on  the  morrow. 

"  Sir,"  sa3^s  the  Prince,  burning  with  rage  (he  had  assumed 
his  Royal  coat  unassisted  by  this  time),  "  did  I  come  here  to 
receiA^e  insults?!' 

"To  confer  them,  majMt  please  3'our  Majesty,"  saj^s  the 
Colonel,  with  a  very  low  bow,  "and  the  gentlemen  of  our 
family  are  come  to  thank  you." 

"  Malediction r^  says  the  young  man,  tears  starting  into  his 
eyes  with  helpless  rage  and  mortification.  "What  will  3'ou 
with  me,  gentlemen?" 

"  If  your  Majest3^  will  please  to  enter  the  next  apartment,'* 
says  Esmond,  preserving  his  grave  tone,  "  I  have  some  papers 
there  which  I  would  gladl3'  submit  to  3"ou,  and  b3^  your  per- 
mission I  will  lead  the  wa3^ ; "  and,  taking  the  taper  up,  and 
backing  before  the  Prince  with  very  great  ceremon3%  Mr.  Es- 
mond passed  into  the  little  Chaplain's  room,  through  which  we 
had  just  entered  into  the  house  :  —  "  Please  to  set  a  chair  for 
his  Majest3',  Frank,"  sa3's  the  Colonel  to  his  companion,  who 
wondered  almost  as  much  at  this  scene,  and  was  as  much  puz- 
zled b3'^  it,  as  the  other  actor  in  it.  Then  going  to  the  cr3^pt 
over  the  mantel-piece,  the  Colonel  opened  it,  and  drew  thence 
the  papers  which  so  long  had  lain  there. 

"Here,  ma3"  it  please  3'our  Majest\%"  says  he,  "is  the 
Patent  of  Marquis  sent  over  b3^  your  Royal  Father  at  St.  Ger- 
mains  to  Viscount  Castlewood,  m3^  father :  here  is  the  witnessed 
certificate  of  m3^  father's  marriage  to  m3^  mother,  and  of  m3^  birth 
and  christening  ;  I  was  christened  of  that  religion  of  which  your 
sainted  sire  gave  all  through  life  so  shining  example.  These 
are  my  titles,  dear  Frank,  and  this  what  I  do  with  them :  here 
go  Baptism  and  Marriage,  and  here  the  Marquisate  and  the 
August  Sign-Manual,  with  which  3^our  predecessor  was  pleased 
to  honor  our  race."  And  as  Esmond  spoke  he  set  the  papers 
burning  in  the  brazier.  "You  will  please,  sir,  to  remember,'* 
he  continued,  "  that  our  family  hath  ruined  itself  by  fidelity  to 


410  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

yours :  that  my  grandfather  spent  his  estate,  and  gave  his 
blood  and  his  son  to  die  for  your  service  ;  that  my  dear  lord's 
grandfather  (for  lord  you  are  now,  Frank,  by  right  and  title 
too)  died  for  the  same  cause ;  that  my  poor  kinswoman,  my 
father's  second  wife,  after  giving  away  her  honor  to  your  wicked 
perjured  race,  sent  all  her  wealth  to  the  King ;  and  got  in  re- 
turn, that  precious  title  that  lies  in  ashes,  and  this  inestimable 
yard  of  blue  ribbon.  I  lay  this  at  your  feet  and  stamp  upon 
it :  I  draw  this  sword,  and  break  it  and  denj'  you  ;  and,  had 
you  completed  the  wrong  you  designed  us,  by  heaven  I  would 
have  driven  it  through  your  heart,  and  no  more  pardoned  3'ou 
than  your  father  pardoned  Monmouth.  Frank  will  do  the  same, 
won't  you,  cousin  ?  " 

Frank,  who  had  been  looking  on  with  a  stupid  air  at  the 
papers,  as  they  flamed  in  the  old  brazier,  took  out  his  sword 
and  broke  it,  holding  his  head  down  :  —  "I  go  with  my  cousin," 
says  he,  giving  Esmond  a  grasp  of  the  hand.     "  Marquis  or 

not,  by ,  I  stand  by  him  an}^  day.     I  beg  5^our  Majesty's 

pardon  for  swearing  ;  that  is  —  that  is  —  I'm  for  the  Elector 
of  Hanover.  It's  all  your  Majest3''s  own  fault.  The  Queen's 
dead  most  likely  by  this  time.  And  you  might  have  been 
King  if  you  hadn't  come  danghng  after  Trix." 

"Thus  to  lose  a  crown,"  says  the  young  Prince,  starting  up, 
and  speaking  French  in  his  eager  way ;  ' '  to  lose  the  loveliest 
woman  in  the  world  ;  to  lose  the  loyalty  of  such  hearts  as  yours, 
is  not  this,  my  lords,  enough  of  humiliation  ?  —  Marquis,  if  I  go 
on  my  knees  will  3'ou  pardon  me?  —  No,  I  can't  do  that,  but 
I  can  oflfer  you  reparation,  that  of  honor,  that  of  gentlemen. 
Favor  me  b}^  crossing  the  sword  with  mine  :  3'ours  is  broke  — 
see,  3^onder  in  the  armoire  are  two  ; "  and  the  Prince  took  them 
out  as  eager  as  a  bo}^,  and  held  them  towards  Esmond  :  —  "  Ah  ! 
you  will?    Merci,  monsieur,  merci !  " 

Extremely  touched  by  this  immense  mark  of  condescension 
and  repentance  for  wrong  done.  Colonel  Esmond  bowed  down 
so  low  as  almost  to  kiss  the  gracious  young  hand  that  conferred 
on  him  such  an  honor,  and  took  his  guard  in  silence.  The 
swords  were  no  sooner  met,  than  Castlewood  knocked  up  Es- 
mond's with  the  blade  of  his  own,  which  he  had  broke  off  short 
at  the  shell ;  and  the  Colonel  falHng  back  a  step  dropped  his 
point  with  another  very  low  bow,  and  declared  himself  perfectly 
satisfied. 

''Eh  bien,  Vicomte !  "  says  the  3^oung  Prince,  who  was  a 
boy,  and  a  French  bo}^  "  il  ne  nous  reste  qu'une  chose  k  faire  :  " 
he  placed  his  sword  upon  the  table,  and  the  fingers  of  his  two 


THE  HISTORY  OF' HENRY  ESMOND.  411 

hands  upon  his  breast:  —  "We  have  one  more  thing  to  do," 
says  he  ;  "  you  do  not  divine  it?"  He  stretched  out  his  arms  : 
—  ''''Embrassons  nous  !  " 

The  talk  was  scarce  over  when  Beatrix  entered  the  room  :  — 
What  came  she  to  seek  there?  She  started  and  turned  pale  at 
the  sight  of  her  brother  and  kinsman,  drawn  swords,  broken 
sword-blades,  and  papers  3^et  smouldering  in  the  brazier. 

"  Charming  Beatrix,"  says  the  Prince,  with  a  blush  which 
became  him  very  well,  "these  lords  have  come  a-horseback 
from  London,  where  my  sister  lies  in  a  despaired  state,  and 
where  her  successor  makes  himself  desired.  Pardon  me  for  my 
escapade  of  last  evening.  I  had  been  so  long  a  prisoner,  that 
I  seized  the  occasion  of  a  promenade  on  horseback,  and  m}^ 
horse  naturally  bore  i^ae  towards  you.  I  found  you  a  Queen  in 
your  little  court,  where  you  deigned  to  entertain  me.  Present 
my  homages  to  your  maids  of  honor.  I  sighed  as  you  slept, 
under  the  window  of  your  chamber,  and  then  retired  to  seek 
rest  in  my  own.  It  was  there  that  these  gentlemen  agreeably 
roused  me.  Yes,  milords,  for  that  is  a  happ}^  day  that  makes 
a  Prince  acquainted,  at  whatever  cost  to  his  vanity,  with  such  a 
noble  heart  as  that  of  the  Marquis  of  Esmond.  Mademoiselle, 
may  we  take  your  coach  to  town  ?  I  saw  it  in  the  hangar,  and 
this  poor  Marquis  must  be  dropping  with  sleep." 

"  Will  it  please  the  King  to  breakfast  before  he  goes?"  was 
all  Beatrix  could  sa}'.  The  roses  had  shuddered  out  of  her 
cheeks ;  her  eyes  were  glaring ;  she  looked  quite  old.  She 
came  up  to  Esmond  and  hissed  out  a  word  or  two  :  —  "  If  I  did 
not  love  you  before,  cousin,"  says  she,  "  think  how  I  love  you 
now."  If  words  could  stab,  no  doubt  she  would  have  killed 
Esmond  ;  she  looked  at  him  as  if  she  could. 

But  her  keen  words  gave  no  wound  to  Mr.  Esmond  ;  his 
heart  was  too  hard.  As  he  looked  at  her,  he  wondered  that  he 
could  ever  have  loved  her.  His  love  of  ten  years  was  over  ;  it 
fell  down  dead  on  the  spot,  at  the  Kensington  Tavern,  where 
Frank  brought  him  the  note  out  of  "  Eikon  Basilike."  The 
Prince  blushed  and  bowed  low,  as  she  gazed  at  him,  and  quitted 
the  chamber.     I  have  never  seen  her  from  that  da}^ 

Horses  were  fetched  and  put  to  the  chariot  presently.  My 
lord  rode  outside,  and  as  for  Esmond  he  was  so  tired  that  he 
was  no  sooner  in  the  carriage  than  he  fell  asleep,  and  never 
woke  till  night,  as  the  coach  came  into  Alton. 

As  we  drove  to  the  "  Bell "  Inn  comes  a  mitred  coach  with 
our  old  friend  Lockwood  beside  the  coachman.  My  Lady 
Castlewood   and   the   Bishop  were  inside ;   she   gave  a  little 


412  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

scream  when  she  saw  us.  The  two  coaches  entered  the  inn 
almost  together ;  the  landlord  and  people  coming  out  with 
lights  to  welcome  the  visitors. 

We  in  our  coach  sprang  out  of  it,  as  soon  as  ever  we  saw 
the  dear  lady,  and  above  all,  the  Doctor  in  his  cassock.  What 
was  the  news  ?  Was  there  3'et  time  ?  Was  the  Queen  alive  ? 
These  questions  were  put  hurriedly,  as  Boniface  stood  waiting 
before  his  noble  guests  to  bow  them  up  the  stair. 

"  Is  she  safe?  "  was  what  Lady  Castle  wood  whispered  in  a 
flutter  to  Esmond. 

"  All's  well,  thank  God,"  says  he,  as  the  fond  lady  took  his 
hand  and  kissed  it,  and  called  him  her  preserver  and  her  dear. 
She  wasn't  thinking  of  Queens  and  crowns. 

The  Bishop's  news  was  reassuring :  at  least  all  was  not  lost ; 
the  Queen  y^t  breathed,  or  was  alive  when  they  left  London, 
six  hours  since.  ("It  was  Lady  Castlewood  who  insisted  on 
coming,"  the  Doctor  said.)  Arg3de  had  marched  up  regiments 
from  Portsmouth,  and  sent  abroad  for  more ;  the  Whigs  were 
on  the  alert,  a  pest  on  them,  (I  am  not  sure  but  the  Bishop 
swore  as  he  spoke,)  and  so  too  were  our  people.  And  all  might 
be  saved,  if  only  the  Prince  could  be  at  London  in  time.  We 
called  for  horses,  instantly  to  return  to  London.  We  never 
went  up  poor  crestfallen  Boniface's  stairs,  but  into  our  coaches 
again.  The  Prince  and  his  Prime  Minister  in  one,  Esmond  in 
the  other,  with  onty  his  dear  mistress  as  a  companion. 

Castlewood  galloped  forwards  on  horseback  to  gather  the 
Prince's  friends  and  warn  them  of  his  coming.  We  travelled 
through  the  night.  Esmond  discoursing  to  his  mistress  of  the 
events  of  the  last  twent^^-four  hours  ;  of  Castlewood's  ride  and 
his  ;  of  the  Prince's  generous  behavior  and  their  reconciliation. 
The  night  seemed  short  enough ;  and  the  starlit  hours  passed 
away  serenely  in  that  fond  compan3^ 

So  we  came  along  the  road ;  the  Bishop's  coach  heading 
ours ;  and,  with  some  delays  in  procuring  horses,  we  got  to 
Hammersmith  about  four  o'clock  on  Sunday  morning,  the  first 
of  August,  and  half  an  hour  after,  it  being  then  bright  day,  we 
rode  by  my  Lady  Warwick's  house,  and  so  down  the  street  of 
Kensington. 

Early  as  the  hour  was,  there  was  a  bustle  in  the  street,  and 
man}^  people  moving  to  and  fro.  Round  the  gate  leading  to 
the  Palace,  where  the  guard  is,  there  was  especially  a  great 
crowd.  And  the  coach  ahead  of  us  stopped,  and  the  Bishop's 
man  got  down  to  know  what  the  concourse  meant? 

There  presently  came  from  out  of  the  gate  —  Horse  Guards 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  413 

with  their  trumpets,  and  a  company  of  heralds  with  their  ta- 
bards. The  trumpets  blew,  and  the  herald-at-arms  came 
forward  and  proclaimed  George,  by  the  Grace  of  God,  of 
Great  Britain,  France,  and  Ireland,  King,  Defender  of  the 
Faith.     And  the  people  shouted  God  save  the  King ! 

Among  the  crowd  shouting  and  waving  their  hats,  I  caught 
sight  of  one  sad  face,  which  I  had  known  all  my  life,  and  seen 
under  many  disguises.  It  was  no  other  than  poor  Mr.  Holt's, 
who  had  slipped  over  to  England  to  witness  the  triumph  of  the 
good  cause  ;  and  now  beheld  its  enemies  victorious,  amidst  the 
acclamations  of  the  English  people.  The  poor  fellow  had 
forgot  to  huzzah  or  to  take  his  hat  off,  until  his  neighbors  in  the 
crowd  remarked  his  want  of  lo^'alty,  and  cursed  him  for  a 
Jesuit  in  disguise,  when  he  ruefully  uncovered  and  began  to 
cheer.  Sure  he  Was  the  most  unlucky  of  men  :  he  never  played 
a  game  but  he  lost  it ;  or  engaged  in  a  conspirac}^  but  'twas 
certain  to  end  in  defeat.  I  saw  him  in  Flanders  after  this, 
whence  he  went  to  Rome  to  the  head-quarters  of  his  Order ; 
and  actuall}'  reappeared  among  us  in  America,  very  old,  and 
busy,  and  hopeful.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  did  not  assume  the 
hatchet  and  moccasins  there ;  and,  attired  in  a  blanket  and 
war-paint,  skulk  about  a  missionary  amongst  the  Indians.  He 
lies  buried  in  our  neighboring  province  of  Maryland  now,  with 
a  cross  over  him,  and  a  mound  of  earth  above  him ;  under 
which  that  unquiet  spirit  is  for  ever  at  peace. 

With  the  sound  of  King  George's  trumpets,  all  the  vain 
hopes  of  the  weak  and  foolish  young  Pretender  were  blown 
away ;  and  with  that  music,  too,  I  ma}'  say,  the  drama  of  my 
own  life  was  ended.  That  happiness,  which  hath  subsequently 
crowned  it,  cannot  be  written  in  words  ;  'tis  of  its  nature  sacred 
and  secret,  and  not  to  be  spoken  of,  though  the  heart  be 
ever  so  full  of  thankfulness,  save  to  Heaven  and  the  One  Ear 
alone  —  to  one  fond  being,  the  truest  and  tenderest  and  purest 
wife  ever  man  was  blessed  with.  As  I  think  of  the  immense 
happiness  which  was  in  store  for  me,  and  of  the  depth  and  in- 
tensit}'  of  that  love  which,  for  so  many  years,  hath  blessed 
me,  I  own  to  a  transport  of  wonder  and  gratitude  for  such  a 
boon  —  nay,  am  thankful  to  have  been  endowed  with  a  heart 
capable  of  feeling  and  knowing  the  immense  beauty  and  value 
of  the  gift  which  God  hath  bestowed  upon  me.  Sure,  love 
vincit  omnia  ;  is  immeasurabl}^  above  all  ambition,  more  precious 
than  wealth,  more  noble  than  name.  He  knows  not  life  who 
knows  not  that :  he  hath  not  felt  the  highest  faculty  of  the  soul 


414  THE  HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND. 

who  hath  not  enjoyed  it.  In  the  name  of  my  wife  I  write  the 
completion  of  hope,  and  the  summit  of  happiness.  To  have 
such  a  love  is  the  one  blessing,  in  comparison  of  which  all 
earthly  joy  is  of  no  value ;  and  to  think  of  her,  is  to  praise 
God. 

It  was  at  Bruxelles,  whither  we  retreated  after  the  failure 
of  our  plot  —  our  Whig  friends  advising  us  to  keep  out  of  the 
way  —  that  the  great  joy  of  my  life  was  bestowed  upon  me, 
and  that  my  dear  mistress  became  my  wife.  We  had  been  so 
accustomed  to  an  extreme  intimacy  and  confidence,  and  had 
lived  so  long  and  tenderly  together,  that  we  might  have  gone 
on  to  the  end  without  thinking  of  a  closer  tie  ;  but  circumstances 
brought  about  that  event  which  so  prodigiousl}'  multiplied 
my  happiness  and  hers  (for  which  I  humbly  thank  Heaven) , 
although  a  calamity  befell  us,  which,  I  blush  to  think,  hath 
occurred  more  than  once  in  our  house.  I  know  not  what 
infatuation  of  ambition  urged  the  beautiful  and  wayward  woman, 
whose  name  hath  occupied  so  many  of  these  pages,  and  who 
was  served  by  me  with  ten  years  of  such  constant  fidelity  and 
passion  ;  but  ever  after  that  day  at  Castlewood,  when  we  rescued 
her,  she  persisted  in  holding  all  her  family  as  her  enemies,  and 
left  us,  and  escaped  to  France,  to  what  a  fate  I  disdain  to  tell. 
Nor  was  her  son's  house  a  home  for  my  dear  mistress  ;  my  poor 
Frank  was  weak,  as  perhaps  all  our  race  hath  been,  and  led  by 
women.  Those  around  him  were  imperious,  and  in  a  terror  of 
his  mother's  influence  over  him,  lest  he  should  recant,  and  deny 
the  creed  which  he  had  adopted  by  their  persuasion.  The 
difference  of  their  religion  separated  the  son  and  the  mother : 
my  dearest  mistress  felt  that  she  was  severed  from  her  children 
and  alone  in  the  world  —  aione  uut  for  one  constant  servant 
on  whose  fidelity,  praised  be  Heaven,  she  could  count.  'Twas 
after  a  scene  of  ignoble  quarrel  on  the  part  of  Frank's  wife  and 
mother  (for  the  poor  lad  had  been  made  to  marry  the  whole  of 
that  German  family  with  whom  he  had  connected  himself) ,  that 
I  found  my  mistress  one  day  in  tears,  and  then  besought  her  to 
confide  herself  to  the  care  and  devotion  of  one  who,  by  God's 
help,  would  never  forsake  her.  And  then  the  tender  matron, 
as  beautiful  in  her  Autumn,  and  as  pure  as  virgins  in  their 
spring,  with  blushes  of  love  and  "eyes  of  meek  surrender," 
yielded  to  my  respectful  importunity,  and  consented  to  share 
my  home.  Let  the  last  words  I  write  thank  her,  and  bless  her 
who  hath  blessed  it. 

By  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Addison,  all  danger  of  prosecution, 
and  every  obstacle  against  our  return  to  England,  was  removed ; 


THE   HISTORY  OF  HENRY  ESMOND.  415 

and  my  son  Frank's  gallantry  in  Scotland  made  his  peace  with 
the  King's  government.  But  we  two  cared  no  longer  to  live  in 
England :  and  Frank  formally  and  joyfully  yielded  over  to  us 
the  possession  of  that  estate  which  we  now  occupy,  far  away 
from  Europe  and  its  troubles,  on  the  beautiful  banks  of  the 
Potomac,  where  we  have  built  a  new  Castlewood,  and  think 
with  grateful  hearts  of  our  old  home.  In  our  Transatlantic 
country  we  have  a  season,  the  calmest  and  most  delightful  of 
the  year,  which  we  call  the  Indian  summer :  I  often  say  the 
autumn  of  our  life  resembles  that  happy  and  serene  weather, 
and  am  thankful  for  its  rest  and  its  sweet  sunshine.  Heaven 
hath  blessed  us  with  a  child,  which  each  parent  loves  for  her 
resemblance  to  the  other.  Our  diamonds  are  turned  into 
ploughs  and  axes  for  our  plantations ;  and  into  negroes,  the 
happiest  and  merriest,  I  think,  in  all  this  country :  and  the 
only  jewel  by  which  my  wife  sets  any  store,  and  from  which 
she  hath  never  parted,  is  that  gold  button  she  took  from  my 
arm  on  the  day  when  she  visited  me  in  prison,  and  which  she 
wore  ever  after,  as  she  told  me,  on  the  tenderest  heart  in  the 
world. 


THE  END. 


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